


The Butterfly Effect

by pikachumaniac



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The individual matters,” he argues back heatedly. “What is the point of saving everyone if you can’t even save one person?”</p><p>In which Tiago Rodriguez comes across a young hacker in a warehouse, and sets off a series of events that will change their lives forever.</p><p>
  <i>Raoul wakes up when an arm is thrown carelessly over him. He sighs; all these years later, and Richard is still so selfish when it comes to sleeping arrangements.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many grateful and exuberant thanks to ReadByRain15 and a hint of garlic for beta-work and feedback.
> 
> And of course, for (blamed on) a hint of garlic. For not stopping me when you could have.

        “Well,” he says. “This is different.”

        _This_ is not the warehouse he finds himself in, a setting that is depressingly familiar. Tiago has never understood the appeal of warehouses as criminal hideouts, and this experience is doing nothing to change his mind considering how easily he has broken in. Perhaps he should be appreciating the lack of security rather than bemoaning the lack of creativity, but he has never been accused of being conventional.

        _This_ is also not the trail of bodies now littering the ground (actually just five, and all in the main part of the warehouse). Tiago is no stranger to violence, and while he might not yet have been recommended for double-o status, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t already _earned_ it. But he also prefers it when the people he kills deserve an abbreviated end, which is why he finds himself somewhat at a loss at what to do about his latest discovery.

        Because _this_ is the wisp of a boy, with wild dark hair and large green eyes obscured by the thick plastic frame of his glasses, sitting in front of a well-maintained, if delightfully antiquated, computer. The boy looks scared, as he well should be when someone with a gun comes barging into his little room, tucked safely away (no longer) from the rest of the warehouse, and the fear is only highlighted by the lurid bruises against pale skin.

        That is what stops him from automatically putting a bullet through the boy’s head, although it really shouldn’t. This isn’t the first time he’s seen someone so helpless, nor will it be the last. It also wouldn’t be the first time he’s killed someone who is (or at least looks) so vulnerable. After all, everyone looks small and vulnerable when facing death, and even more so when actually dead. If vulnerability was a deterrent to what has to be done, MI6 would never get anything accomplished.

        But that doesn’t help him much in what has to be done _now_. He supposes it depends on the exact nature of the boy’s relationship to the newly defunct organization he has just taken down, and so in the interest of moving things along, he lowers the gun. The boy doesn’t relax in the slightest at the conciliatory gesture, but Tiago is not in the habit of being insulted by a display of basic survival instincts. That is why he smiles and dips his head slightly in greeting as he says, “Hello. What is your name?”

        Nothing. The boy stares at him like he doesn’t understand English, or maybe it is the sentiment behind the question that is throwing him off. He doesn’t let it dissuade him though, instead indicating himself with his free hand. “I’m Tiago. Tiago Rodriguez.”

        He can already hear the tongue-lashing Mansfield will unleash on him for giving out his name so easily, but Mother should know better than to expect otherwise from him. Tiago has never been very good at following the rules, but as long as he gets the job done, he knows that a stern talking to is the most he can expect from her. Mansfield is first and foremost practical, and he has learned to take advantage of that.

        Less practical, apparently, is the boy, who continues to stare at him like he isn’t supposed to be there. Tiago supposes that the boy has a point, since he really isn’t. This little venture is strictly off the books, a product of necessity when, a few nights back, Tiago had noticed that someone was hacking the Chinese. Normally this would not be of his concern, but the slight complication was that he had noticed because _he_ was in the Chinese systems as well. The newcomer was nowhere near as good as him, of course, but that was precisely the problem. If he had spotted them so quickly, then the Chinese would not be far behind. From there, the risk that they would discover _him_ as well was simply too great. While Mother tended to turn a blind eye to his… not precisely sanctioned work as long as he got her the information she wanted, he has a nasty suspicion that she won’t be so forgiving when it comes to getting caught.

        To save her the trouble, he had decided to take care of the problem himself, using his superior technical skill to quickly track down the hacker. Once he had their location, he had made his way here for a friendly visit, which admittedly wasn’t very friendly on his part. Tiago knows when a smile can be disarming, but he hadn’t needed to bother with pretense because he had clearly taken the three men and two women by surprise, and had dropped the lot of them before they could make a peep.

        He could have done the same to this boy, who is in no position to resist. He probably should have already, considering how the point of this little side trip is to ensure that there is nobody who can connect him to his recreational infiltration of the Chinese systems. He can’t very well let the boy go, now that he has shown his face and given his name so willingly. He knew that when he had introduced himself, he had signed the boy’s death warrant, and yet he finds himself unable to proceed with the inevitable. Instead, he continues to make things harder on himself – no one has ever accused him of being practical either – by holstering his weapon and sitting himself down on one of the rickety chairs, which he has pulled close enough to the boy so that only a few feet separate them.

        “You know,” he says, the words deliberately casual, “it is polite to give your own name after someone has introduced himself.”

        Silence. Just as he is starting to wonder if the boy is a mute or perhaps really doesn’t understand English, the boy abruptly replies, “Why do you want to know?”

        Tiago’s eyebrows raise, and the boy immediately looks panicked. It is painfully obvious that he hadn’t meant to say anything, especially not something that could be deemed disrespectful. Automatically the boy hunches slightly into himself, desperate to make himself a smaller target. The beatings the boy has endured have had an undoubted effect, but at the same time, they were apparently not one hundred percent effective at silencing that tongue of his.

        Tiago cannot help but be pleased by that, since at the very least this conversation ought to be interesting. He doesn’t voice that particular opinion though, just waits for the boy to realize that he intends no harm (for now, anyway) before he says calmly, “I thought it would be best to address you by name when I ask you what you were doing, hacking the Chinese like that.”

        He smiles at the boy’s open-mouthed gape at being found out, an expression that makes him seem far younger than he already appears. Still, he is not a cruel man, so instead of embarrassing the boy with his amusement, he continues, “But if you prefer to go straight to the whips and chains, that can be arranged. However, I am a reasonable man, so let us start again. My name is Tiago. What is your name?”

        The boy does not even hesitate, proving once again that the threat of torture could do wonders to loosen a tongue. “Richard. But how did you know-?”

        “That you were the one hacking the Chinese?” Tiago finishes for him. “Just a guess.”

        Richard looks skeptical, which is a bit insulting. After all, Tiago would not have lasted very long in this business if he operated on mere guesswork, and would have lasted even shorter if he wasn’t able to _observe_ things. He’s no Sherlock Holmes, but he would be a poor agent indeed if he failed to immediately notice that he had found Richard in front of the computer. He doubts that the ones in charge would leave the boy with something so vital to their cause if he didn’t know how to use it, particularly when considering how they’ve treated the boy so poorly.

        On a more subtle level, he had also noticed the way Richard is careful to keep the computer between them as best he can, as if hoping that the machine will offer him some sort of protection. Perhaps it had, giving his captors (another guess on his part, admittedly, but he’s seen no evidence that the boy is here voluntarily) a reason to treat him more kindly than they otherwise would have, although it offers no real protection now. He knows from experience that computers do not stand up well to bullets.

        “Are you often in the habit of guessing?” Richard asks reluctantly, when the silence stretches out and it becomes apparent that Tiago is in no particular hurry to pick up the conversation.

        He shrugs, the gesture idle. “At times. Although if I was to ‘guess’ that you taught yourself, what would you say to that?”

        The stare he gets is confirmation enough, but luckily the boy is too busy staring to ask how Tiago figured that one out. He doesn’t mind because that conclusion had been based purely on instinct, and while Tiago doesn’t mind having to rely on instinct (it’s saved him more times than he can count), it is rather more difficult to explain. And since he does not need to explain, he takes his time inspecting the boy’s computer more closely. It truly is a relic, no matter how well-maintained it is, and he shudders to think of what the boy could have done with a proper machine.

        He doesn’t even need to complete that thought to know it is an outright lie; under any other circumstance, he would leap at the chance to see what Richard could do with the right equipment and actual training. The hack that had caught his attention was not exactly… elegant, but most people would not been able to get that far even with a proper computer. When combined with the fact that Richard is self-taught, Tiago knows without a doubt that the boy has the potential to be absolutely brilliant.

        The problem, of course, is that potential is rarely enough to save anyone, and this is most certainly not ‘any other circumstance.’ This is here, in a dank warehouse with five corpses mere feet away, and this is them, an agent with a job to do and a boy with no real means of preventing him from doing so. He should not be putting off the inevitable by engaging in conversation that does not matter, and it is obvious that he is not the only one who knows this when the boy finally answers his question, “I would ask if it even matters.”

        Tiago wants to lie and tell Richard that it does matter. He doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be much point when the boy already knows the truth, and it seems pointless to dance around it. He came here to dispose of the person who was infiltrating the Chinese networks because that person is a threat, not only to him but to the Handover itself. It does not matter that the hacker is a mere boy who is too clever for his own good and too wide-eyed to be deceived and too _bloody young_ to be caught up in this, except it _should_. It _should_ matter, and even though Tiago knows better than most that _should_ means absolutely nothing in the real world, he can’t help but ask, “Why did you do it, Richard? What were you hoping to achieve?”

        He tries not to stare when Richard nervously bites his lip, which is already a ridiculously deep shade of red. It would be lovely, against that pale skin, but thinking about the boy ( _boy_ , he is just a boy, couldn’t possibly be older than eighteen even if his eyes could easily belong to an old man) in such a way makes him feel like a cradle robber.

        The bruises are a sufficient deterrent as well.

        “I don’t know what they wanted,” Richard eventually says, his voice shaking. The boy knows that the answer he is giving is not the one Tiago is looking for, and he has had too much experience with the consequences of not giving people what they want, if the beatings he has endured are any indication. When Tiago doesn’t do anything, not even a raise of an eyebrow, he swallows. “I think they were unhappy with the Handover and wanted to cause some… trouble, make the Chinese think that the British were getting into their systems. I don’t think they meant to hurt anyone,” he finishes lamely, failing completely to include himself as ‘anyone.’

        Tiago is not very surprised by that. He wouldn’t be surprised if the boy’s captors had convinced Richard that he has no value, as assets are more easily controlled when they think themselves disposable. The irony is not lost on him though, as he is certain that those troublemakers could not have come close to carrying out their plans without the boy.

        And what an interesting plan it is. Tiago could almost admit that it was clever; simple, but effective, taking advantage of the underlying tensions and distrust between the Chinese and the British. Of course both sides knew that they had spies on the other side – they would be stupid not to – but to have _evidence_ of such duplicity was a far different story. With _evidence_ , the entire charade would crumble, based solely on a fact that everyone already knew to be true.

        “I see,” Tiago finally says, mostly to break up the silence, which admittedly was getting a bit long. Silence has its uses in an interrogation, particularly with civilians who become so uncomfortable with the silence that they will say anything to fill up the void. But this is not an interrogation since there isn’t any information he needs from the boy. They both know where they stand, and one of them has even accepted it. Perhaps it is the boy’s acceptance of his fate that makes Tiago unable to accept it as well, and again he finds himself saying, “But that isn’t what I had asked. I asked what _you_ wanted.”

        “Me?” The poor thing looks truly startled, as if he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to know about _him_. “I… I don’t….”

        “Surely there is something you want,” he coaxes, looking around the room in an attempt not to be _so_ transparent about what he is doing. Because with his question, he is giving Richard an opportunity to explain in painful detail all the wrongs that have been done to him and why Tiago should not kill him like he killed the others. It still might not be enough, but it is a chance to _survive_. Surely a boy who is clever enough to get into the Chinese systems with no training and a barely functional computer should recognize that?

        Except Richard is clever, and knows that it is not enough. Whatever it is that he has gone through, it is not enough, so the boy just shakes his head, unwilling to play a game that he cannot win. “I don’t want anything.”

        “Then why did you help them?” It’s a struggle to keep his frustrations at bay, but he knows (and a tiny part of him even accepts) that the frustration is not with Richard, who looks even more frightened than before.

        “Because they were my parents.”

        With that admission, all the fear seems to go out of the boy, leaving only a peculiar deadness because there is nothing else left in him. But the same cannot be said of Tiago, who looks at the boy in surprise. He isn’t sure why he is surprised; it certainly has nothing to do with the fact that two of the bodies he has left behind are Richard’s parents. It is a reasonable (if not preferable) explanation for why Richard did what he did, although his almost… apathetic acceptance that his parents are dead… that, at least, is a little less expected.

        “And does that make it okay?” he asks. He is not sure who he is asking. Is it okay that Richard committed criminal actions because his parents told him to? Is it okay that his parents beat on him so? And most importantly, is it okay for Tiago to use either of those things as a reason to let Richard live, when he honestly should not?

        Unfortunately, as clever as Richard is, he is not psychic and so he cannot answer the real questions. He can make it harder for Tiago though and, purposefully or not, does just that when he shrugs a little helplessly and answers the only way he can. “I know it doesn’t matter. I know that.”

        Tiago tilts his head slightly, “You really think it doesn’t matter?”

        “It doesn’t change what I did, does it?” _It doesn’t change what you will do_ , goes unsaid.

        He could lie. It would be easy to, and Tiago has never been hesitant about deviating from the truth. But it is not often that he offers false comfort, and he knows Richard would not accept it in any case. “No, I suppose it doesn’t change anything.”

        There is a hint of apology in the words, but there is nothing tentative in the way he leans in, ignoring the way Richard flinches back (expecting to be hit yet again, no doubt) as he gently brushes the boy’s hair away to expose his neck. He barely needs to touch the pale skin to feel the boy’s pulse jump, and he asks softly, “Can you give me any reason why I should let you live?”

        Richard swallows, and Tiago can almost see his mind racing. Should he tell the truth or should he lie? Should he try for wit or blunt acceptance? So many choices, and which is the right one to survive this threat? But at a certain point, it just becomes too much, and the boy replies, “Should you?”

        Tiago smiles, and he knows it is a little sad. Because the response is _too_ honest, like Richard really doesn’t know what else he has to bargain with beyond what a complete stranger sees in him. Scared as he might be, he is apparently unable to come up with one good reason why Tiago should let him live, and perhaps that is all the answer he needs.

        His grip tightens ever so slightly. It could be quick. Tiago _knows_ how to make it quick, and from the way Richard stares at him with a calm that is almost disconcerting, they both know that the boy cannot do anything to stop him. _Will_ not do anything to stop him.

        But what Tiago alone knows is that it does not matter. It had not mattered starting the moment he had laid eyes on the boy, and while he knows it is foolish to make a decision based solely on a few bruises, Tiago also knows that humans really are that simple. It isn’t easy to admit that he can be just like everyone else, can be that foolish, but he will accept it. He will accept it just as he did all those years ago, when he finally came to the realization that no matter what he did, his parents would not change. They would not suddenly learn to love him just because he was obedient, and they would not suddenly stop with the abuse just because _he_ loved _them_.

        There is a breaking point for everyone. His had come when he was seventeen, and finally decided that there was no longer any point. He’d honestly considered killing them in their sleep, suffocating them just as they used to do to him through emotional abuse. He could have managed it easily, and he might even have got away with it. Instead, he had walked away and never looked back, replacing one master with another by joining MI6. The recruiters had considered him young, but he had considered it nothing less than taking matters into his own hands.

        It had not taken him long to convince them of that as well.

        He’d had other options, but he chose MI6 as a way of taking back the control he had never had as a child. He had vowed that if given the opportunity, he would not sit back and watch anyone suffer through what he did. And for the past eleven years, a part of him had continued to wait for that opportunity because spying and torturing and occasionally killing for Queen and country was not the same as what he had set out to _do_. To be completely honest, he might have let that aspiration die away entirely after a time, convincing himself that his work at Mansfield’s behest was good enough. But looking at Richard now, he knows that it is not. He knows that he is finally being given that opportunity to do something _more_.

        It probably is not fair, to put eleven years’ worth of expectation on a boy who has no idea why he is so interested in him. But they both know that life is not fair (if it was, it wouldn’t need people like Tiago to look out for its welfare), and that is why Richard just continues to watch him, passively waiting for the decision that will change (or end) his life forever.

        Tiago releases him. He does not bother to explain to Richard that his fate was sealed as soon as Tiago had taken one look at those bruises and remembered another boy looking into the mirror, vowing that this would be the last time. No, instead of voicing any of this, he just watches as Richard reaches up to touch his neck, still unsure that the threat of it being broken has passed, before ordering cheerfully, “Get up. It is time for us to get going.”

        “Go?” Richard asks, utterly bewildered by the command but mostly by his continued ability to breathe. “Go where?”

        Yet even as he asks, he is already standing. Richard knows that he doesn’t have a choice but to follow the person who has murdered his parents, and can only hope he hasn’t simply exchanged one cage for another.

        Tiago can’t really make any promises on that point (and he wouldn’t even if he could), but at least he can offer the boy something more than a depressing warehouse filled with the bodies of people who couldn’t care for him the way he deserved. He might not be doing what he’s supposed to, but that is nothing new. Besides, he knows that the boy deserves something better than what he had, and Tiago will make sure that he gets at least that.

        “Home. We’re going home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Richard takes in a deep breath, obviously weighing the pros and cons of what he is about to say. It doesn’t look like he comes to a concrete decision, but still he manages to say, “I don’t need your pity.”_   
>  _“I don’t pity you,” Tiago replies automatically._   
>  _“Yes, you do,” Richard counters. “Why else would you have let me live, if not pity?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many gushing thanks to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for beta-help on this story!

        Unfortunately, “home” for Tiago is a tiny flat that is barely large enough for one person, let alone two. Tiago had never really noticed, on account of spending nearly all of his waking hours (and a great deal of his sleeping ones) at Station H, but he most certainly notices it now as he squeezes in himself, Richard, and Richard’s belongings.

        Not that there is much of that last category, as the only thing the boy seemed to care for was his computer. Being the practical sort (despite all the recent evidence to the contrary), Tiago was not about to allow him to bring it along when that was how he had tracked down the little operation himself. He has no interest in others doing the same, especially since he has no interest in explaining to Mansfield that the Chinese are knocking at his door because the boy has an emotional attachment to a machine. Besides, he has better equipment for Richard to work on, once they have established a certain level of trust.

        (Not absolute trust, of course; that’s far too much to ask for. As an agent he knows better than to trust anyone completely, and seeing how he _did_ murder the boy’s parents and is more or less kidnapping him now, Richard hopefully knows better than to trust _him_ completely as well.)

        For now though, Tiago turns to the boy, who is clutching his rucksack of clothes and books before him like a shield, and smiles widely. His smile doesn’t waver in the slightest as Richard instinctively pulls the bag closer, watching him with the sort of wariness typically reserved for a dangerous creature. Still, Tiago does try to be a good host, so he puts some distance between them. He moves towards the tiny kitchen, where he quickly busies himself with a show of opening cabinets as he calls out, “Would you like something to drink? I would offer you alcohol but you don’t look of age yet, so you’ll have to settle for water or tea.”

        Predictably he gets no response, not even to the jab about Richard’s age, unless he is to count quiet staring as an answer. Tiago does not count it, so he sighs and pulls out the Earl Grey and his kettle, commenting mildly, “This will be a lot easier if you make an effort.”

        “An effort,” Richard repeats dumbly, and Tiago is starting to think that this may not be one of his finest ideas. It had seemed sound at the time, the idea that he could give Richard a home and the tools to make something of himself, but now that they are out of that warehouse and in Tiago’s flat, the reality of what he is proposing is finally sinking in.

        “Yes, an effort,” he replies a little irritably, causing Richard to flinch back. Tiago immediately feels bad, except even then there is a twinge of irritation at how easily the boy is intimidated. He knows he shouldn’t be so judgmental, especially since he understands better than most what Richard has gone through, but he has never had much patience for others. It’s resulted in more than a few of his co-workers complaining about his arrogance. While those complaints may be well-founded, it’s born from the fact that what he has done, he has done on his _own_. He’s less inclined to be sympathetic as a result, even if logically he knows that not everyone is like him. Not everyone can be as intelligent as him, as quick to learn, and not everyone could have so easily walked out of his family’s place and into MI6’s offices like he was just making a trip to the post office, rather than making a decision that would change his life.

        That change had been necessary to preserve his own humanity. He doesn’t know what he would have ended up as if he had stayed, but he knows enough about himself and all his weaknesses that he would not have liked that person very much.

        This change is necessary for Richard too. The boy is far better off now than he was and would have been if Tiago had not intervened. Whether he recognizes this is another story; at least in Tiago’s own case, he had made the decision on his own. Richard did not, although Tiago suspects that he would have eventually. Still, given the circumstances and the rather inescapable fact that he did murder the boy’s parents (and he will forever maintain that it was entirely deserved), perhaps Richard’s stunned response is understandable, even if it is rather… irritating. So although it is difficult, Tiago makes an effort to find the patience that he supposes is required to make this living situation work.

        Because it is difficult, and he is not quite sure where to start, there is an awkward silence as they wait for the water to boil. Once it does, Tiago prepares the tea and pours it into the mismatched mugs (he’s never bothered to get a proper set, seeing how he never gets any visitors). Belatedly he realizes that he should ask Richard if he wants any milk or sugar, before remembering that he doesn’t have either of those things anyway. It’s probably fine because he suspects Richard wouldn’t know how to answer, although it is one more reminder of how woefully unprepared he is for the task of living with another person.

        Still, at least he is making more of an effort than Richard’s last caretakers (he uses _that_ word very loosely) did, if he is to judge from the way Richard hesitates when the mug is offered, as if not sure what to do with it. Eventually he sets down the rucksack and takes it, although he doesn’t budge from his corner even as Tiago settles himself down on the armchair. He takes a sip of the mug and waits for Richard to do the same before he says, “Now, I think it best if we go through the ground rules.”

        Richard practically spits the tea back out. Once his coughing fit has finally passed, he asks weakly, “Ground rules?” The boy is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. It is not a flattering look for either of them.

        He drinks a bit more of his tea before setting the mug down on the small table, smiling beatifically, “Yes, ground rules.”

        “Why?” Richard blurts out despite himself.

        He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘why’? Surely you did not think I was going to give you free rein over my flat.”

        “You were being serious?” When Tiago just gives him a questioning look, the boy elaborates with obvious reluctance, “About me staying here with you.”

        “Do I look like the joking kind?”

        Richard, being clever, does not respond to that. Tiago sighs, resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair because he doesn’t want to be too obvious about his frustration. The boy has a point, considering how singularly unsuited he is for this, but he has always been stubborn. “Yes, I was being serious. It seemed the best way of keeping you from committing treason again, or would you prefer if I dropped you off at the nearest police station instead?”

        Like the last time, the threat immediately shuts Richard up, although Tiago doesn’t feel any satisfaction over that. It’s not exactly difficult to intimidate someone in Richard’s position – young, vulnerable, and at the dubious mercy of a known killer – and besides, intimidation _isn’t_ the point of this endeavor. He doesn’t want Richard cowering in the corner, afraid of another beating or worse. He wants the boy to realize that he is more than what his parents told him he was. Unfortunately, Tiago has no idea how to go about accomplishing that. He needs time to think, and in the interest of buying himself some time, he launches into a set of rules that he hasn’t actually thought through.

        “First, you are not to leave this flat unless I go with you.” Tiago thinks this is reasonable, although he pauses in case Richard wants to offer any pushback. None is forthcoming. He didn’t think there would be since he doubts Richard ever left that warehouse, especially considering how _pale_ he is (and not from the fear). At least his flat is less… depressing. He wishes he could say that it is more comfortable, but that claim is debatable at best given that the only bed in his flat has been squeezed into the living room, as he had long ago converted the bedroom into his ‘office.’

        Speaking of the office, he points at said bedroom. “Second, that door is to remain locked while I’m out.” He pauses, looking over the boy. “You don’t have any lock-picking skills, do you?”

        Richard shakes his head quickly, and he smiles. “Good. May I suggest that now is not the time to start any new hobbies? I would hate to have to shoot you because you stumbled on something you should not have.”

        “You should have shot me already.”

        Tiago blinks, tilting his head. That was not where he had expected this conversation to go, and so he asks mildly, “Should I have?”

        “You said it yourself. I committed treason, didn’t I?”

        He shrugs. “In a sense.”

        That is putting it lightly, considering how Richard’s actions could have brought the entire Handover crashing down around them. Tiago isn’t the only one who recognizes that; the boy knows it too, which is why he starts to reply. Then his mouth closes, and he almost imperceptibly shakes his head, as if scolding himself. Tiago waits patiently for Richard to pick up the conversation, but when nothing is forthcoming, he prompts, “It looks like you have something to say, Richard.”

        He could have let it go. That might have been the kind thing to do, given how much havoc he has wreaked on the boy’s life already. But Tiago wants Richard to speak up for himself, to say what is on his mind because based on what he has seen so far, it is a brilliant mind that he does not want to see wasted. It will take time, he is certain, but they have to start somewhere.

        Richard takes in a deep breath, obviously weighing the pros and cons of what he is about to say. It doesn’t look like he comes to a concrete decision, but still he manages to say, “I don’t need your pity.”

        “I don’t pity you,” Tiago replies automatically.

        “Yes, you do,” Richard counters. “Why else would you have let me live, if not pity?”

        “I don’t pity you,” he repeats, and is a little surprised to discover that he is not lying. Because while it’s true that what he feels about Richard is admittedly close to pity (it would be difficult not to pity the boy, with his bruises, his delicate features, and the unshakeable impression of someone who seems so breakable), pity implies weakness, and Richard is not weak. Not in the slightest.

        He wonders if he should tell the boy that, but he doubts Richard would believe him right now. His doubts are confirmed when Richard shakes his head, far more forcefully this time, and says, “I just don’t understand what you want.”

        “Who says I want anything?”

        “Everyone wants something.” Speaking from experience, no doubt.

        “True enough,” he replies. “But that doesn’t mean I want something from you.”

        Tiago sets down the mug and stands. When he takes a step forward, Richard almost falls in his haste to scramble back. His free hand is already rising to defend himself from a blow, and thus he is completely unprepared when Tiago takes the hand that is still holding the almost full mug, uncurling shaking fingers from the handle before taking it back. He looks the boy straight on, and can’t help but admire how those sharp green eyes do not look away from him as he says, “I just thought you could be better. That is all.”

        He understands that it will take time for his words to sink in, and more time for Richard to believe what he has said. For now though, he gently pushes Richard towards the bathroom, and says, “That is enough for today, I think. It is late and you should go get ready for bed. There are clean towels in the drawers, and I’ll put fresh sheets on the bed.”

        The boy lets himself be pushed, but still observes weakly, “None of this makes sense.”

        Tiago has already turned around, pausing only to pick up his own mug as he makes his way back to the kitchen. “I never claimed it would.”

        “ _You_ make no sense.”

        He can’t help but laugh at that; it’s not the first time he’s heard that, and it won’t be the last. “I never claimed I did.”

* * *

        Tiago is a little surprised when he emerges from the bathroom and finds Richard passed out on the bed, fast asleep. He’s not sure what surprises him more: the fact that the boy is on the bed at all (he had insisted that the boy take the bed, due to his lack of even a sofa for a guest to lay out on) because he wasn’t sure if the boy would listen given Richard’s tendency to treat offers as traps for the unwary), or that Richard can sleep so peacefully. Even taking into account how exhausted the boy must be, it still takes some amount of trust to sleep in such unknown circumstances, especially when those unknown circumstances involve a person who makes no secret of his ability to kill. Perhaps Richard implicitly knows that Tiago will not hurt him, or perhaps he is simply too tired to care. Whatever the reason, Tiago immediately sets out to abuse that trust by rooting through the boy’s paltry belongings.

        There is not much, beyond some clothing and a few books about computers. With just a glance he can tell that the clothes are far too large for someone so thin and the books are disgustingly outdated, which speak far more about Richard’s past caretakers than Richard himself. He doesn’t get much more information from the other items he salvaged from the group’s stores, and he promises irritably that if he is ever given the task of advising criminal organizations, the first thing he will tell them is to keep better records.

        Still, he ends up with something more than he started with. The papers he’d found are the usual drivel – full of pointless diatribes against the Handover, against mother England, against everyone in general – but at least he comes up with an age, if not much else. It’s not particularly important in the grand scheme of things, the fact that Richard is seventeen, but the coincidence is amusing. Seventeen seems to be the age where everything starts to change, for better or worse, but Tiago figures seventeen is as good a time as any.

        He thinks this change will be better, or at least he is well on his way to convincing himself of that as he stands over the bed, watching the boy sleep. The sleep eases out the tense lines on his face and makes him look even younger than he already does. For an absurd moment, Tiago wants to brush that unruly hair aside and… what? He doesn’t know. He honestly doesn’t know.

        But really, that has always been his problem, acting without thinking through the consequences. He’s justified it all this time because he doesn’t see the point of being paralyzed by self-doubt (as so many of the other Station H employees have), and besides, he gets away with it. More importantly, he gets away with it not because of luck or the help of others, but because he is damn good at what he does. No matter the circumstances, he can and always will figure out a way to survive even the self-inflicted wounds.

        He has no reason to think that this time will be any different.

* * *

        Tiago wakes up the next morning confused by the crick in his back. It takes him a moment to remember that he has spent the night sleeping in the armchair. While he’s slept in far worse conditions than that, he’ll need to come up with some other arrangement before the discomfort becomes something more permanent, and thus more apt to interfere with work.

        The pain in his back is not the only thing likely to interfere with work. By this he refers to his preoccupation with Richard. Even though he had made it a point of slipping out of the flat before the boy had awakened, out of sight is clearly not out of mind. For the rest of the day he is driven to distraction with questions of whether he will be coming back to an empty flat or worse. It’s not that he thinks Richard is likely to do something irrational, but even he has to admit that waking up alone in a strange place is bound to be disorienting. Considering how little he actually knows about the boy, it’s harder still to predict how Richard will react.

        It’s even harder when he doesn’t actually have the time to be worrying about Richard, a point that is well-made when Mother passes by his desk. She gives him a long look that he is slow to acknowledge, before flatly ordering him to get his act together or to vacate the premises. While he chooses to go with the former rather than the latter, he still finds himself impatiently counting down the minutes until it will not be unseemly for him to leave for the day.

        Once the work day is done, it doesn’t take Tiago long before he is back at his flat, even if he makes a few stops on the way. It would probably be polite of him to knock on the door first before barging in, but he has no interest in knocking on the door of his own flat. Besides, he wants to see how the boy is coping, and so without hesitation, he unlocks the door and steps in.

        He is barely inside when the boy is looking at him in horror, struggling to extract himself from the armchair. A book (one of many he has lying around, on advanced computer systems) is clutched in one pale hand, and the other is already moving up to shield his face as Richard starts to babble apologies. Then there’s an awkward moment where Richard clearly does not know what to do when Tiago simply walks over and gives him one of his two shopping bags.

        “I would start with the ones in here, Richard. Best to start with the basics,” he says as he lets go, causing Richard to nearly topple off the chair at the sudden weight of the books. His search through the local bookshop hadn’t come up with anything of use, but he’d had the foresight to… ‘procure’ a few volumes from MI6. Tiago knows no one will notice; except for a few of the more enterprising members of Q-branch, most of Station H seems to disdain the computer systems as nothing more than a way of reducing paper. But he knows that computers will be the way of the future, and he is not the only one in the flat who understands that.

        Richard, meanwhile, is struggling to compose himself, but still is able to mind his manners as he says quietly, “Thank… thank you.”

        Tiago nods in acknowledgment before walking to the kitchen table and setting down his other bag. As he starts to set out the boxes of takeaway (he’s bought too many, but he wasn’t sure what the boy would want to eat) he asks, “Did you actually understand any of that book? Not that I’m questioning your intelligence, but I just want to get a sense of what you do and do not know.”

        “Some,” Richard replies, setting both the book and the bag down, but does not elaborate further. Instead he casts a furtive and longing look at the food, yet makes no move to join Tiago even when a chair is pulled out for him. Tiago doesn’t need to check his cupboards to know that Richard has not touched any of it, and he feels the hatred tinged with frustration surge within him. He reminds himself that there is nothing more he can do about that hatred (sometimes, death really does seem to be too easy, and he would like nothing more than to go back and make the boy’s parents suffer quite a bit more), and instead concentrates on what he can accomplish.

        He crosses back over to the boy, making sure his tone is pleasant as he says, “You can start eating while I move the armchair over.”

        This time, Richard does manage to scramble off the armchair, although he stands around nervously as Tiago drags the piece of furniture over to the kitchen table. Only after Tiago has seated himself does the boy dare to sit as well, and although manners dictate that he should let Richard start first, he knows the food will get cold before _that_ happens. So he takes the chopsticks and goes at it, and finally the boy joins in.

        They eat in silence, and it’s probably the closest Tiago has and ever will come to domesticity since leaving his family behind. It’s just as awkward as he remembers it to be.

        Things only get more awkward when Richard abruptly puts down his bowl and asks, “Did you have any more?”

        Tiago stares at the boy. He doubts that Richard means food because there is still quite a bit of that left, and he doesn’t think Richard means the books either because the boy has yet to look at what has been given to him. “Any more what, exactly? You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

        “Ground rules.”

        He blinks. What is interesting is not what Richard is asking, but how. Unlike every other action taken that day, the question is not asked in that nervous, timid way that was quickly grating on his nerves. It isn’t a challenge, but it is more than idle curiosity. Tiago isn’t sure how to describe it, really, except as a test to see how he will respond. Based on that, Richard might be able to establish what limits there are, what lines he must toe. But seeing how the point of this isn’t to create boundaries, he just shrugs. “No. Well. I suppose I must ask that you not burn down the flat, and that you take care of yourself. But otherwise, I trust you to use your judgment.”

        With that, he goes back to his dinner, but that doesn’t last long because even though he’s used to eating alone, he’s not used to being the only one at a table eating. He sighs and puts down the bowl and chopsticks, and says, “If what you’re really asking for is that I tell you what to do, then you’re going to be disappointed. That’s something you’ll have to figure out on your own.”

        “You honestly expect me to believe that you don’t have something in mind already?” Richard replies bluntly, and Tiago can’t fault him for being skeptical. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since a strange person wandered into his life, killed his parents, and locked him away in a tiny flat with only vague explanations of what he can be. Tiago will defend his actions, but even he must admit that the change is enough to turn most people into a gibbering mess. Yet Richard proves once again that he is not “most people,” and for that, Tiago is grateful. He’s never had much patience for others, and he honestly needs a reminder every now and then why he has chosen to take on this particular burden.

        Otherwise, he doesn’t think things will turn out very well for either of them.

        “Believe what you want,” he says, but the words are not unkind. They’re just as blunt as Richard’s own words because he thinks he should offer the boy at least that. “You’ll have to learn how to do that eventually.”

        And with that, he goes back to his meal.

        Tiago would be lying if he said that he isn’t himself tense, waiting to see what Richard will do. He supposes there aren’t exactly many options. The boy can’t storm out, and there aren’t many places in the flat for him to sulk either. Even less space for privacy, unless he was to lock himself in the bathroom.

        Richard does none of those things, of course. Tiago didn’t think he would. Instead, the boy slowly picks up his chopsticks and resumes eating, although with a certain delicacy like he is prepared to drop everything and run at the slightest hint of trouble.

        They spend the rest of the meal in silence.

* * *

        As the next week passes, things remain undeniably awkward between them. While Tiago would like nothing more than to attribute that to the fact that the flat is so cramped that they keep bumping into each other when he’s not out at work, he has to admit it probably has more to do with: 1) the fact that he is and always will be the person who murdered Richard’s parents, and 2) the fact that he is keeping Richard here not entirely with his permission.

        For the former point, it sometimes feels more like self-flagellation, considering how Richard has never expressed an opinion one way or the other. But it is Tiago’s experience – and he actually _does_ have a lot of experience with that, so he knows exactly what he is talking about – that the murder of a parent isn’t something so easily brushed off, no matter how… fraught the relationship was. Even he had felt a bit of grief when his parents had passed, and they hadn’t even bothered to file a missing person’s report after he had walked out on them (he checked, although he has no idea what he had been expecting at the time). As for Richard, he doesn’t really know what the boy feels; that is something Richard has proven very good at keeping to himself, almost disturbingly so.

        But then, that might have something to do with the latter point, since Richard probably isn’t in the sharing mood. Tiago can tell himself that Richard hasn’t actually _asked_ to leave yet, but it’s likely the boy assumes that is an argument he won’t be able to win. After all, Tiago has the keys, the money, and all of the means of subsistence (and not to mention a gun and the will to use it). If Richard has any sense, and so far the evidence quite suggests he does, it’s no wonder he’s keeping any complaints to himself. But that’s not the same as _not_ having complaints about the fact that he’s just as trapped as he was before, except now he’s dependent on an entity to whom he owes no loyalty (misplaced or otherwise).

        Tiago can justify it, of course, on the grounds that at least he’s not beating the boy. He can even tell himself that he has Richard’s interests at heart, or at least to the extent of making sure that the boy’s brain and talents are not wasted. But while both of those things are true, they’re not enough. Just because present circumstances are not as bad as the past doesn’t mean they are any good, and just because Tiago is better than Richard’s parents doesn’t mean _he_ is any good either.

        This somehow translates to Tiago feeling like he should be creeping about his own flat like an unwanted intruder (ironic, given that _he’s_ not the criminal of the two, although the line between agent and criminal is increasingly thin). He knows he shouldn’t, obviously, seeing how it’s his flat, but then he’s never really thought of this place as a ‘home.’ It is simply a place for him to go to when Mansfield starts glaring at him, and now it is a place to go to because he has no choice, due to the obligations he has taken on.

        He is careful, of course, not to let these thoughts affect the way he acts around Richard. But as good as he is at keeping up the appearance of someone who is in complete control of the situation, that doesn’t change how _awkward_ things are between them. Whether it’s the still near-silent meals (they don’t even ask each other to pass the salt), the uncomfortable debates about who should use the bathroom first, or his own increasing moodiness because of the pain in his back (he’s still sleeping in that chair, seeing how there’s not enough room in the flat to sleep on the floor, let alone get another bed), he doesn’t know. Or care. Because what he does know is that if things continue the way they are, someone is going to end up with a kitchen knife in an eye socket, so one day he unlocks the door to his office.

        Tiago can see that Richard is trying very hard not to be too obvious about his staring, and trying so hard in fact that he is startled when he is addressed with a cheery, if slightly curt, “In.”

        Richard quickly gets to his feet, walking into the office without a peep of protest. Tiago isn’t that surprised; in addition to feeling awkward, the boy has obviously been _bored_. Being locked in a flat all day without anything to do but read and clean (it was impossible not to notice how clean the flat was these days) was probably driving Richard a bit mad, so a change – no matter how risky – has to be welcomed.

        This change is especially welcome, he immediately knows. He hadn’t anticipated that letting Richard at his computer will solve all (or even any) of the problems between them, but once again, the boy seems determined to exceed all expectations. As Tiago drags the armchair into the office, he can’t suppress his smile at the way Richard is gaping at his computer setup like it is Christmas come early. The tension that has hung between them every waking (and sometimes sleeping) moment since they had met is instantly forgotten, caught up as they are in their mutual reverence for what they both know is the future.

        Of course, it cannot last forever, but when Richard turns to face him again, there is a light in his eyes that Tiago has not had the pleasure of seeing before. It makes the boy look less haunted, and truly it is a good look for him. He hopes to see more of it, and soon.

        Tiago sits down in the armchair and gestures at Richard to take the other seat. Once the boy is settled, Tiago turns on the computer and tries not to grin at how greedily Richard watches the system start. Tiago had bought this particular machine with his own money, and when it comes to computers, he doesn’t bother with anything but the best. Compared to what Richard had to work with before, what he has here is a technological marvel. It’s no wonder the boy looks absolutely stunned when Tiago says, “Alright. Show me what you can do.”

        Richard hesitates. Tiago can see that he wants nothing more than to get his hands on the keyboard, but he doesn’t because even now, he is wary of a trap. He covers for his fear by asking, “What do you want me to do?”

        Tiago leans back in his chair, trying to appear relaxed in the hope that this might permit Richard to relax as well. “Anything. You can show me what you already know how to do, or you can show me something you learned in those books I gave you. Whatever you want.”

        This time, the desire to do _something_ outweighs all the inherent risks of the situation, and Richard reaches out for the keyboard. But then Tiago remembers that the risks aren’t just to Richard, and he quickly takes hold of a wrist. It’s still so thin and delicate, and Tiago could have snapped it with barely any effort if he wanted to. Luckily for the boy, he does not want to, but he has to show that he is serious when he says, “Without hacking the Chinese, mind you. We wouldn’t want a repeat of that business, now would we?”

        Richard turns a little pink at that, but nods his head quickly in understanding. Tiago lets go, and for a moment the boy looks a little lost. Just as Tiago is starting to wonder if his reminder had gone a little too far, given the precarious nature of their association, Richard turns his attentions to his work.

        It doesn’t take very long at all for Tiago to confirm his suspicions as to how _good_ Richard is at this.

        To say that the boy is clever would be faint praise at best; it is clear from the way Richard effortlessly navigates an unfamiliar setup that he understands computers and how systems are built, and how best to use that knowledge to manipulate whole networks. And more than that, there is not only confidence in the way Richard works, but a joy that the boy could never hide, no matter the circumstances. Watching Richard, Tiago can understand how he has managed to teach himself; this was not a skill he picked up out of sheer necessity, to give himself worth in the eyes of people who shouldn’t have to be shown such an obvious thing to begin with. No, this is a skill chosen because he truly loves the virtual world and its infinite potential, and in that moment, Tiago wants nothing more than to show Richard all that he possibly can.

        It’s an odd feeling, as there is a reason why Mother long ago gave up on having Tiago teach the newer agents how to hack after he’d caused two to have crying fits and sent a third into a nervous breakdown that he still hadn’t _quite_ recovered from (still on deskwork, that one, and for the better in Tiago’s opinion; anyone who can’t survive him shouldn’t be out there in the field, risking the mission and innocent lives). He had assumed that he just didn’t have the patience to teach, but now he knows what the real problem was. Unlike Richard, those agents hadn’t wanted to learn for the sake of learning but were only going along with it because Mansfield thought they should. None of them had appreciated the opportunities that would be opened up to them, seeing only a chore that they wanted to get over with as quickly as possible.

        That is far from the case with Richard, and he knows that teaching Richard will not be a chore. It will be a pleasure, to shape that potential into something _brilliant_. In fact, the boy might even surpass him one day. But rather than fill him with displeasure or jealousy, all he can think about is what they could _do_. Some might say he is thinking too far ahead, but Tiago has always been a proponent of thinking big. He knows that it wouldn’t just be computers and systems they would create; they could topple governments, dictatorships, entire economies, all without having to leave this room. They could build newer, _better_ worlds, all on their own.

        But alas, that will have to wait. As much as it feels like they can do anything, they are still human with daily needs, and dinner is waiting. He stretches out to touch Richard’s arm gently, and says, “That’s enough for today, I think. We can continue tomorrow.”

        There’s a moment where Richard’s face falls at the thought of stopping, before he processes the rest of what Tiago has said. And then his face is brightening, although there’s still a touch of wariness that he cannot completely suppress (and for good reason).

        “Alright,” Richard says reluctantly, shifting over so that Tiago can take control again. The boy watches wistfully as he shuts the system down, before asking because he cannot help himself, “Why are you doing this?”

        “Because you deserved a chance,” Tiago replies, before he can consider his response more fully. The look on Richard’s face, like he is a child waiting for someone to snatch away the one good thing in his life, makes Tiago want to brush aside tousled hair in an attempt at reassurance. He resists because he’s never been the sentimental type, and yet the boy is making him reassess things, even in this short amount of time.

        He wonders if this is a good thing, but then he finds that he doesn’t really care because Richard is smiling softly, the first one he has ever seen, and saying, “Thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“‘Dear boy, dear boy, dear boy.’ You’re mocking me.”_
> 
> _“I do no such thing,” he protests, except that is a blatant lie, and he knows it. He can’t remember when he started using the term for the boy, but Richard is unfortunately clever enough to realize that it is not an endearment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much adoring thanks to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for beta-help on this story!

        The next day, Tiago once again finds himself slipping out of the flat before Richard wakes up, spending the entire day being wholly unproductive because he is too busy wondering what awaits him when he returns. He tries to tell himself that it does not matter, but honestly he is not sure how he will handle it, if Richard goes back to being that skittish, haunted creature that lurked about his flat for the past week. While he isn’t exactly expecting a miracle, to return to that after seeing how _alive_ the boy had been with the computer will be… frustrating, to put it lightly.

        Luckily, he doesn’t have to find out how much patience he has. When he returns to the flat with takeaway from the place Richard likes (not that the boy has ever admitted anything, but Tiago wouldn’t have lasted very long under Mansfield’s watchful eye if he couldn’t notice a detail like that), the boy hesitates when he comes in, but at least manages a faint, “Hello.”

        “Good evening,” he returns with equal formality. Since he always greets the boy even when it wasn’t reciprocated, he tries to reward the effort by continuing, “How was your day?”

        “Fine,” Richard says, which is probably all he can say considering how he had spent another day cooped up in the flat with nothing to do but read books. But rather than let the conversation drift into the usual awkward silence, the boy timidly inquires, “How was yours, if I’m allowed to ask?”

        “You are,” Tiago replies easily even though he’s really not. Luckily, he has a lot of experience ignoring the nagging in the back of his head, which he promptly does as he puts the food on the table. “The usual, I’m afraid. People doing things they shouldn’t, me having to clean up their messes… I don’t mean you,” he adds hastily, seeing the look on Richard’s face. “I doubt anyone else noticed your antics.”

        “Oh,” is the only response he gets, but at least the boy isn’t shrinking away. Instead, Richard gets up and joins him in the kitchen, pulling out the plates that have been neatly stacked in the cupboard while Tiago takes out the foot cartons. The plates are followed by the chopsticks, and it seems like Tiago isn’t the only one who is observant because Richard has picked out his preferred pair (the dark wooden ones, less thin than most of the others so that they fit more comfortably in his hands). He smiles a bit wryly at that, although his reaction does go unnoticed.

        Their meal is silent beyond the occasional request to pass a carton. Tiago wonders idly if perhaps they should actually start putting the food out on dishes in an effort to act more civilized, but that just seems like more work for them to do afterwards. Even so, the thought stays with him because since when has he cared about being more domestic in the first place? He’s always preferred practicality to unnecessary form, and nothing has happened that should change that.

        (Except that isn’t completely true, and he knows it.)

        There’s no need to worry about unnecessary form once they retreat to his office, where such inane matters fall quickly to the wayside in favor of what they have in common. Richard isn’t quite at his level, and won’t be for some time, but the questions he asks are not the irritating sort from the agents that Mansfield had forced him to teach before they all learned better. Instead, they are intelligent and demonstrate the innate understanding of programming and coding that the boy possesses. More often than not, they find themselves wandering off on tangents that they are both only too happy to explore. It makes the lessons (if they can truly be called that) slower, but far more interesting.

        And as the days go by, it’s not only the conversations during their evening and weekend sessions wandering off on tangents. Their talk over the dinner table is no longer limited to vague social niceties or even programming and code, but could almost be considered… domestic, as they discuss recent news and the books that Richard has been reading (non-technical ones even). It’s odd, having a conversation where no one has to speak of self-worth or engage in thinly veiled threats, but Tiago is not about to complain. He’d always thought of ‘normal’ as ‘boring,’ but really, he is starting to find a certain… comfort in having a place with someone who won’t try to get him fired if he makes them cry (not that he has any intention of making Richard cry, of course), along with being able to return to a home where said someone seems to actually want him around.

        Tiago doesn’t know which is more unusual, the fact that he can think of the flat as a ‘home’ or the idea of someone accepting his company for reasons other than work obligations. In a way, they are tied together. Despite all of his earlier talk about giving Richard a home, Tiago truly had never thought of his flat as anything but a place to sleep in between working hours and to do some of his less-sanctioned work on the weekends. His flat was simply a necessity because nobody, not even Mansfield, would tolerate him spending all of his time at Station H, but it had never been a place he wanted to inhabit.

        That has changed now that Richard had come along, giving him something to look forward to in the evenings. He had never been lonely before, but now it feels rather like a part of his life that he hadn’t found particularly meaningful has its own value. It’s no longer about doing what he can to pass the hours between work, but about spending time with someone whose company he genuinely enjoys.

        Granted, he doesn’t know if the feeling is mutual. Richard seems content enough (if still a tad nervous, the effects of physical abuse too engrained within him), or at the very least he recognizes that his current situation is better than his last. It’s also better than being dead, which they both know may again end up being a valid alternative.

        The possibility that Richard was still at risk of his less tender mercies would have been a rather significant sticking point, if it wasn’t for Tiago’s conviction that he will never take that option anyway. If he’d had no reason to dispose of Richard when they first met, he has even less reason now, although sometimes he is concerned with how quickly he finds himself caring for the boy. But it’s hard not to care when Richard is so remarkable, and it’s not just his brilliance with computers (though that is admittedly a significant part of it). There’s just something about him that Tiago wants to see more of – _knows_ there is more of – although it’s not exactly something Tiago can articulate with words. Then again, he doesn’t need to. Not everything in the world needs an explanation; at times, things are just what they are, and as long as they get along, what does it matter?

        Mansfield would think otherwise, of course, but then she always was a paranoid bitch. Tiago accepts there is good reason for it, but if everyone was as paranoid as her, then Richard would be long dead and buried. He had taken a risk by letting the boy live, and an unacceptably high one when he brought Richard to his flat. But that was his risk to take, and he does not regret it. The status quo was all fine and good, but this is far better, with Richard no longer hesitating to take this chance to make something more of himself, and in the process, making a little something more for Tiago as well.

        He can’t be made to feel guilty for doing that. He won’t.

* * *

        There are times though, however, that Tiago starts to realize that he might be letting his guard down a little too much. It’s not a good quality to have in an agent, and he may have to apologize to Mother one day since it speaks poorly of his training. But better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission, since he already knows the outcome should he bother to engage in the latter (and as for forgiveness, well, some things just don’t have to be forgiven, and Richard is quickly proving to be one of them).

        One of those times involves a question, or a non-question to be precise, because Richard already knows the answer to it. “You were seventeen when you joined MI6.”

        Tiago blinks at that. His inability to respond may have more to do with the boy being so personal with him, rather than the inescapable conclusion that the boy has been going through his things, although that is something they may need to have a stern discussion about. He doesn’t immediately chastise the boy though, despite the fact that Richard clearly expects him to (which begs the question of why he asked to begin with). Instead, he puts down the report he was reading and confirms, “Yes, I did.”

        Richard fiddles with the book in his lap. Tiago only needs a brief glance to see that the boy has not been reading it at all, since he is on the same page that he was a good half hour ago. He’s obviously been thinking about this for quite some time, yet is still so unsure of whether he wants to follow through with this. But emboldened by the answer he has received, he asks, “How did you convince them to let you join?”

        “I was good,” he says simply. “I showed them that.”

        “I’m good too.”

        Tiago smiles a bit at that, but it’s not particularly sincere. There’s something about the boy’s tone that bothers him, and it isn’t because of any arrogance or self-congratulations. To the contrary, Tiago wouldn’t mind if Richard took some pride in the fact that yes, he is very good (although Tiago was much better) because it is always good of the boy to recognize that he is nowhere near as worthless as his parents had made him feel. But pride is not the reason behind this conversation, and so he says, “I don’t doubt that, but I assume reassurance isn’t the reason why you’re asking.”

        No less than a week ago, the conversation would have ended there, with Richard turning a delightful shade of pink and pretending to go back to his book. This time, the boy still can’t help the blush, but instead of letting the words (or lack thereof) hang between them, he asks what is truly on his mind. “Did you want me to join too?”

        He doesn’t answer immediately, mostly because he doesn’t have an answer. He should have one though. It’s such an obvious question, and yet he has never really thought about it. Or, if he was to be honest (and he does try to be, with the boy at least), he has deliberately avoided thinking about it. There are a lot of good reasons to have Richard join, not least of which being the benefit of having someone with a working brain to help him, rather than simply being a hindrance. Even Mansfield would have to acknowledge that Richard can be an asset, which had the added benefit of forcing Mother to acknowledge that his “loose cannon” tendencies have tangible benefits to her. There are even reasons for the boy himself, as MI6 would be able to give him the resources to start a new life, perhaps even a new identity. There’s no such thing as fresh starts, not in this world, but MI6 could provide the next best thing.

        And yet that is itself a reason for him not to encourage Richard to join. It’s not that he wants the boy dependent on him, but the thought of losing him is… hard. Even if they were able to work together at MI6, it wouldn’t be the same as what they have now, the freedom to interact without any of those restrictive rules and tedious protocols standing in their way. Tiago knows it is selfish, but that is a vice he will readily admit to.

        As there’s no real way of saying “no” at this point, especially when he has no legitimate reason to (because even he recognizes that a good reason for him is not necessarily a legitimate one), he replies casually, “If you want to. It’s all up to you, really.”

        “You say that like you actually mean it.”

        “You’ve got quite a lip, haven’t you?” he replies sharply, before he can think better of it.

        He immediately regrets both the words and the tone, except it’s too late. The words are already out and Richard has shrunk back, mumbling apologies. But the only thing Tiago can hear clearly is “ _That’s what they thought_ ,” and then he isn’t regretting it at all. He could apologize, or at the very least blame the long day due to the most recent cockup of Station H’s newest field agent, a mess he will have to fix _without_ shooting the agent in the head), but honestly, he’s just tired of it.

        “I’m not them,” he says coolly because hasn’t he proven it by now? Even though the practical part of him knows that if their positions were reversed, he would be just as skeptical as Richard. Even though a month just isn’t enough to make some hurts go away completely, he’s still human enough to be quietly infuriated that even now, even after all of this time and all that he has _done_ , he is still being doubted. It doesn’t matter that under different circumstances, he would simply be impressed with the boy’s common sense; the circumstances as they are, from his perspective, make the words impossible to hold back.

        He starts to reach for the mission report, certain that the boy is not going to respond and needing something to distract himself. There’s that look on Richard’s face, the one where he shuts down and it’s like being in that warehouse again, the subject of such fear, except it had been deserved then. Now it just seems patently unnecessary. Can he blamed for being so frustrated?

        Perhaps not, but that probably doesn’t mean he should be lashing out like this. He of all people should be able to remember that this sort of thing takes time. Richard has progressed far more than he could have expected in this short amount of time, especially considering what he is recovering from. Still, recognizing the reality of their situation doesn’t stop the painful disappointment from coursing through him as he picks the report back up.

        “I know that.” Silence. It’s not often that Tiago is rendered speechless, and he’s never pleased when he is, but as always Richard is able to defy his expectations by repeating, “I _know_ that. It’s just… why me? Surely you’ve seen this sort of thing before.”

        There’s no need to specify what ‘sort of thing’ is being referred to, and even less need for him to confirm, “Yes, I have.”

        “So what’s different this time?” Richard asks, still unable to accept his own worth even though he’s proven himself over and over again simply by surviving as intact as he has. Not for the first time and unlikely for the last, Tiago wants to reach out and comfort the boy, to show through action what words have failed to express.

        But instinctively he knows that now is not yet the time, and he settles instead for saying, “It’s not me I’m looking at this time.”

        He gives Richard the time to process that information, that little bit of honesty that is necessary to build up the trust that is so necessary for them. And because Richard is clever, the gravity of what Tiago is admitting is not lost on him. Because it’s hard for Tiago to admit that for years, he’d had to stare at a lost little boy every time he looked in the mirror. In all his years on covert operations, he’s never seen someone who looked as forlorn as himself. Not until he had seen Richard. But that just means Richard _understands_ , and the boy asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

        Tiago smiles, a more honest one if tinged with sadness. He’s never told this to anyone before, not even the recruiters, who were hard-pressed to take his seventeen-year old self seriously in the first place. Mansfield had figured it out because of course she would, but even she had not raised the issue beyond her usual mantra of ‘ _orphans make the best recruits_.’ It’s not that he hides it well or that he even tries to hide it in the first place; he’s moved on, simply put (except for the occasional impulsive act of mercy, anyway). One day, the boy will as well. “So that you know I mean it when I say that I don’t pity you. I understand, but I don’t pity you.”

        Richard meets his eyes, long fingers continuing to play nervously with the pages of the book that is still on his lap. “I know that too. It’s just… it’s hard to remember sometimes.”

        “I know,” he replies, and he does, all too well. There’s a reason why this is the first time he has spoken to anyone about this. He’s never played well with others because – their startling incompetence aside – he’s never wanted to get close. He’s spent years working with some of those people yet never came close to calling them colleagues. They were just people he shared space with, not people who he would ever want to share his feelings (or his _past_ ) with. Mansfield is different, but what he feels for her is respect. There is no trust because she never asks for it, knowing that trust is a two-way street and that she is unable to reciprocate.

        But there’s something about the boy, that odd thing he cannot put into words, that makes him open up in ways he thought closed off to him. It’s not just that they share a past, or that they could share a future, but a combination of that and so much more. And it’s the reason why he doesn’t back away when a hand is hesitantly placed on his arm. Nothing more needs to be said. There will be a time for necessary conversation later, he knows without a doubt, but for now, this is enough as he repeats, for both their sake, “I know.”

* * *

        Things aren’t perfect, of course. Tiago knows all too well that people are too messy and complicated to expect such a thing, but sometimes he feels that what they are starting to have is as close to “perfect” as one can humanly get. It’s a startling thought, especially when he has never lived with another person in all of his adult life, but he adapts quickly enough. It probably helped that Richard spent so much of his time at the beginning trying to be as small and unnoticeable as possible, but as the boy continues to lose the fear that dictated everything he did, he slowly but surely starts to take over the small flat.

        It’s just small things at first, like how the dishes are arranged and the increasing prevalence of half-read books scattered about (it’s less that the boy has a limited attention span and more that he seems reluctant to reach the end of a story). And beyond that, it’s subtle, in ways that Tiago can’t explain, but soon it feels like every part of the flat is imbued with Richard’s presence.

        This phenomenon is not only prevalent in the flat, but in Tiago’s life as well. At work he finds himself wondering what the boy is up to while he’s gone, and he’s worse off at home where they’re trapped in such close proximity that he’s unable to concentrate on anything but the boy’s presence. Richard doesn’t make it any easier, especially when Tiago now wakes up every morning with the boy wrapped around him like an octopus.

        At a certain point, the sleeping arrangement had become untenable, and they had been forced to share the bed. There was barely enough room on the floor for Tiago to lay out, let alone another bed, and in any case Tiago didn’t want to raise any suspicions with such a conspicuous purchase. Richard doesn’t complain, although by the end of the first night Tiago had quite a few things of his own to complain about. For someone who seems so uncomfortable with his personal space being invaded, Richard seems to have no problem being the assailant. It doesn’t matter that they start each night as far away from each other as possible, or that Tiago has taken to putting several pillows between them to act as a barrier. Sooner or later, and increasingly it is sooner, Tiago finds himself trapped by lanky limbs. Luckily the boy is a sound sleeper so it’s easy to extract himself and rebuild the barrier or leave for the day, but it’s still the source of much consternation for him.

        Admittedly, much of that consternation is how absurdly content he is to tolerate the invasion. More than a few times, he lays there with Richard wrapped around him, unwilling to move not because he doesn’t want to take the small risk of waking the boy, but because he simply does not want to move away from him. Each time, it becomes more of a struggle to push the boy away because there is an absurd, terrible desire to wrap an arm around him to hold him close.

        Tiago has never been beholden to social conventions, but even he recognizes how inappropriate such feelings towards the boy are. The problem is that instead of such thoughts retreating in shame and embarrassment, he finds himself growing increasingly (and pathetically) attached to Richard. No matter how sternly he reminds himself that it is wrong, it’s hard to remember the moral high ground every time the boy learns something new. Richard doesn’t even have to smile because the honest pleasure on his face is such a joy to behold. It’s just one more thing that separates the boy from all those others, who just wanted to learn how without ever understanding _why_.

        _Why_ is a question that Tiago is constantly asking himself these days, specifically _why_ is he letting himself fall for the boy so easily, and _why_ isn’t he restraining himself when he knows that it is wrong (but just because it’s wrong doesn’t mean it’s _not_ right). And yet no matter how many times he asks himself _why_ , one look at Richard, whether he is programming or reading a book or falling asleep (the glasses starting to slip off his face as his head droops down, requiring Tiago to rescue them and lay the boy down to sleep, ignoring murmured complaints in the meantime) tramples out all of those reservations in the blink of an eye. Honestly, he just never had a chance. He knows without a doubt that it is dangerous to care this much about anyone, and yet he does because Richard makes him feel in a way that he had not thought possible – like there’s someone in the world that makes him matter.

        It’s odd because Tiago has never been modest about his abilities, but being valued for what he can do instead of who he is… that is new. His family hadn’t cared one way or the other, and MI6 only forgives his worse habits because he is good at what he does. Richard sees all of that and yet doesn’t push him away, instead unconsciously drawing him closer simply by being himself, despite Tiago’s best attempts to resist.

        And he does attempt, truly. He soon finds himself creating barriers during both the boy’s sleeping and waking hours, but his efforts to protect the boy from his inappropriate feelings do not go unnoticed as one day Richard snaps, “‘Dear boy, dear boy, _dear boy_.’ You’re mocking me.”

        “I do no such thing,” he protests, except that is a blatant lie, and he knows it. He can’t remember when he started using the term, but Richard is unfortunately clever enough to realize that it is not an endearment. It is a reminder, a _necessary_ one, that Richard is too young to be a target of Tiago’s unbecoming affections.

        But despite his objections, he can’t suppress the little thrill that accompanies every time Richard challenges him. It’s such a far cry from when the boy passively accepted everything thrown at him, and he savors it. It had of course started with computers, during their intellectual debates about what was the best way of hacking a computer undetected. Eventually it had bled into the more mundane aspects of daily life, whether it was disagreements over the best way to stack the dishes or Richard finally feeling comfortable enough to respond to Tiago’s gentle teasing (which only encourages more teasing on his part). It’s less common than he likes, since the boy is still unduly deferential at times, but that is why Tiago has to appreciate this moment even though Richard is getting uncomfortably close to the truth.

        “Then why do you insist on treating me like a child?” Richard retorts.

        “Because you are a child, especially when you act like this,” he replies.

        The boy responds with a scowl that would surely have earned him a ferocious beating not too long ago, but only makes Tiago want to laugh tenderly. “I am not a child.”

        That is unfortunately true. No one in their circumstances could have held onto a notion as quaint as childhood for long, but that’s not the point. He needs Richard to be a child because if he does not, he will do something that they will both regret before long. Thus, he compensates by teasing mercilessly, “If I took you to a nursery, they would sweep you away and put you in swaddling clothes before you could protest.”

        “And what would you be doing during this time?”

        “Providing them with your pacifier, of course.”

        Richard smiles, a sardonic little thing that suggests he is rather less amused than Tiago needs him to be. The boy may have a fine appreciation for banter, he has found, but Richard is also tenacious and not so easily distracted by Tiago’s antics. “It sounds like it would be easy for you to get rid of me then, if that is all it would take.”

        “Then it’s a good thing I don’t want to get rid of you.”

        “It’s hard to feel wanted when you keep trying to push me away.”

        Tiago sighs; Richard doesn’t sound particularly upset, so it’s likely he doesn’t think Tiago is anywhere close to turning him out of their ( _their_ , when did it become _their_?) flat. But he is obviously confused by what Tiago is doing, which is warranted. It’s not as if they’ve had a conversation about his inappropriate feelings; after all, he’s been avoiding having a conversation along those lines like the plague.

        “You know when grown-ups say they’re doing something for your own good?” Tiago asks, and Richard makes a face that highly suggests that anyone who has ever made that claim to him before had certainly not meant it. Tiago can believe that, but as has been pointed out many times before, he isn’t them and so he is able to say with complete confidence, “Well, this is for your own good.”

        “I would think I’m intelligent enough to determine what is or isn’t for my own good.”

        He probably is because surely Tiago has to be the only one foolish enough to think that there can be anything between the two of them. Still, he’s not about to find out, and so he replies airily, “Actually, I often find that intelligence and common sense don’t always coincide.”

        Richard glares at him, but there’s no real anger there despite Tiago’s patronizing words. Instead, it’s like the boy (a boy, he’s just a _boy_ ) is trying to figure out what is going on in Tiago’s head, but unable to come up with anything, he has to make due by pointing out, “You’re changing the subject.”

        “That I am,” he announces proudly, standing up. “And now I’m ending the conversation. I need a shower, and you need to go to bed.”

        Tiago doesn’t wait for a protest, instead getting up and heading to the bathroom. He can feel Richard staring holes into his back, and he knows that this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of problems with this chapter, in the sense that sometimes things seemed to move too slow and then too fast, and the process would repeat over and over again. Much thanks must be given to my lovely betas, who definitely played a vital role (as always) in making this chapter coherent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tiago finds himself nearly losing that breath, choking slightly as his heart seems to jump into his throat when Richard grabs hold of his hand to pull him to the other side of the view point where it overlooks the outlying islands. The sky is clearer here, the sun reflecting off the deep blue of the water, and Richard is pointing out something in the distance, but Tiago can’t hear it because all he can think about is how much he would have lost, if he had pulled that trigger instead of asking questions._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much heartfelt thanks to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for beta-help on this story!

        On the day Richard turns eighteen, they visit the Peak.

        It’s not the first time in their three months (and eleven days; Tiago is nothing if not meticulous about keeping track when it comes to the boy) of living together that they have left the flat, mostly to the local markets on the weekends. It is, however, the first time they would have ventured so far away. The wisdom behind this particular excursion is admittedly questionable, given that he should be trying to avoid situations where Mother might find out about that he is harboring someone who technically is a traitor, but it matters little when balanced against all the reasons in favor of it.

        As used to being a shut in as the boy (still a boy, the change in his age means nothing, he has to remind himself) is, Richard is obviously starting to get restless, and Tiago can’t really blame him. It doesn’t help that he’s had to work increasingly late nights and weekends as the Handover approaches, and a significant proportion of the time he does manage to spend at their flat is focused on trying to push the boy away without driving him off. So taking Richard to the Peak is his way of apologizing, even though he knows this too is counterproductive to his long-term goal of not becoming a child molester.

        Still, it feels like the least he can do after the these difficult days, and Richard seems keen enough. The boy’s enthusiasm is impressive considering that it is a typical June day, hot and oppressively humid even for a Hong Kong summer. It doesn’t stop Richard shifting from foot to foot as they wait for the Tram to arrive, trying but not quite succeeding in acting like a grownup rather than an excited child. Tiago, for his part, keeps casting glances at the sky, which is foggy and unappealing, to say the least. But Richard’s eagerness is infectious, even as they’re crammed into the funicular train like sardines in a can, and Tiago finds himself craning his own neck to look out the window as they’re carried upwards towards the summit.

        It’s the first time he’s seen this view, even though he’s lived in Hong Kong for over a decade. But he’s never visited any of the landmarks unless required by work, and in those rare instances, he was never in a position to try his hand at sight-seeing, too busy removing threats to Queen and country. As for Richard, well, the boy hasn’t spent much time outside in general. So it’s a novel experience for both of them, acting like tourists in a city they have spent so much time in already, and it is surprisingly not as irritating as Tiago had expected it to be. The view of the city is spectacular, even under the layers of fog and after years of living in its sprawling depths, but the sight is nothing compared to the smile on Richard’s face.

        That _is_ a view that Tiago has seen before, usually after the boy has got past one of his firewalls and is brimming with a satisfaction that is as infuriating as it is infatuating, but outside, under the sun instead of the harsh artificial light of his office, it makes his breath catch because the boy looks so _happy_. It could have gone so wrong, the chance Tiago took on the boy, because he knows better than anyone how easy it would have been to stop trying after a childhood wasted on trying to please people who wanted nothing to do with him. Richard doesn’t have to be here, capable of finding such joy in a world that for so long had simply disappointed him, but he is. He _is_ , against all the considerable odds, because he is so strong in ways that go beyond knowing how to manipulate a computer code. And if Tiago finds that breathtaking, can anyone really blame him, especially now?

        And then Tiago finds himself nearly losing that breath, choking slightly as his heart seems to jump into his throat when Richard grabs hold of his hand to pull him to the other side of the view point where it overlooks the outlying islands. The sky is clearer here, the sun reflecting off the deep blue of the water, and Richard is pointing out something in the distance, but Tiago can’t hear it because all he can think about is how much he would have lost, if he had pulled that trigger instead of asking questions. He never would have known how happy that boy in the warehouse could be, or how happy he could make Tiago, but he knows _now_ and the thought that he could have lost the boy as collateral damage is, in a way, more terrifying a thought than he has ever had. It makes him want to bury his face in that tangle of curls and never come up for air because this is far more than he had ever thought possible. Not so long ago, Richard had looked so lost and felt so worthless, and while there are times (too many times, even now) where Tiago sees that frightened child staring blankly out a window, it’s the last thing he sees right now.

        But if what he sees fills him with his own joy, it is also the source of much dread, to the point that he knows he should – _must_ – look away. But the view truly is something to behold, and he justifies his inability to turn away by telling himself that this is the last time. This is the last time he will allow himself to stare so openly because after this, things will have to change between the two of them. It’s not enough to half-heartedly try to push the boy away or create barriers that he knows will be knocked down; he has to do more than that. It’ll be for Richard’s own good, and the sooner he acts, the easier it will be for the both of them to accept.

        Except then he looks down and realizes that in all this time, Richard has yet to let go of his hand and Tiago has yet to make him, and it starts to occur to him that perhaps it is already too late for the both of them.

* * *

        The suspicion becomes less theoretical and more alarming when they return to the flat. It’s late as they had dinner before coming back, and they skip the nightly computer session in favor of getting ready for bed. Even though there’s that worry gnawing at the back of Tiago’s brain, there’s also an odd sort of satisfaction of a truly pleasant day separate from work or programming or the usual things he fills his days with. He will forever claim that is the reason why he is not prepared when Richard abruptly says, “I’ve come to a decision.”

        “That’s nice,” he says carefully, even though he suspects that it is not very nice at all. “Does that decision have anything to do with why you’re straddling me?”

        Richard flushes a little at that, but doesn’t move from his perch on Tiago’s torso. He’s so light that it would be easy to just push him off (he practically does it every morning), and yet Tiago doesn’t move as the boy says a bit defensively but without any regret, “I didn’t want you walking away.”

        “What makes you think I’ll walk away?” Tiago grimaces when Richard just gives him a flat look, so he continues brightly, “Well, there’s certainly no danger of that now, although I don’t want to encourage you into thinking this is an appropriate negotiation tactic, effective as it may seem at the moment. Perhaps after you put some weight on you because really now, it’s too easy to-”

        “Tiago.”

        Any further glibness immediately dies in his throat. Richard has never called him by his given name, not once, and he isn’t sure if he likes it or not. Or rather, he is quite thrilled by it, if not for his common sense being too horrified to allow him to appreciate it.

        Tiago is the first to break, sighing finally and asking in a resigned sort of way, “Yes? What is so important that you feel it necessary to speak to me this way?”

        “I think you already know.”

        He has a suspicion, but chooses to feign ignorance. “Why don’t you tell me anyway?”

        Normally, this would be enough to deter the boy, causing the conversation to devolve into stammered apologies and embarrassed looks. But considering what lengths Richard has gone to already (as evidenced by their highly compromising position), he isn’t that surprised when Richard takes him up on his challenge, even if his face is now a flaming shade of red.

        “I… I…” The word he wants to say sticks in his throat, and so Richard struggles to find a comparable word. Tiago appreciates the effort, but it makes him feel no better when the boy finishes, “… care about you.”

        _Shit_. That’s what he wants to think because he knew this was coming, he _knew_ it, but hearing it is so different from imagining it and makes it so much harder to say _no_ to. He knows he must, even though he knows he is being given permission to wrap his arms around Richard and pull him to his chest, feel the fast rush of his heart match his own, which is beating so fast that he feels rather like a love-struck teenager.

        But someone has to be the grown-up in this situation, and so rather than ask ‘ _how long?’_ or let himself be thrilled, he just replies dryly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”            

        And he doesn’t, although it’s not his fault because Tiago is the one who put them in this position to begin with. The power balance between them has always been sharply tilted in his favor, so while Richard might sincerely believe what he is feeling is real, it’s almost certainly born from his clinging to the first person to show him the slightest bit of kindness. To take advantage of that affection would be beneath Tiago, no matter how tempting it might be or how much it will hurt (the both of them).

        Richard doesn’t see that though, judging from the confusion in his eyes. Tiago waits for the boy to sulk over the rejection, to act like the child he should be, but of course Richard chooses this exact moment to remind him that the person he has come to care very, very deeply for cannot be so easily written off. “I know exactly what I am talking about.”

        “You don’t,” he insists, and it’s weak even to his ears. What he needs to do is shut this down, make it not about Richard, but about himself. It wouldn’t matter what Richard feels if he didn’t reciprocate those feelings; in fact, the reason why this _is_ so difficult is because of how Tiago feels. But to go to such lengths will be awkward and will ensure that things will never be the same between them, and he knows he cannot do such a thing. Even if what he feels isn’t right, he can’t lose Richard like this either, and so he tries a different tactic of avoiding the situation entirely. “You’re too young.”

        Richard, as he has proven over and over again, is unfortunately not stupid, and he simply tilts his head slightly. Tiago can see that rather than immediately reply, Richard is thinking through what Tiago is trying to do and formulating an appropriate response, which is why he points out, “I’m the same age that you were when you started at MI6.”

        “You’re too young,” Tiago repeats, ignoring Richard’s underhanded attempt at using what he knows about Tiago against him. The bloody cheek. It’s why he finds Richard so captivating, but since he shouldn’t be, he attempts to gently but firmly push the boy off of him. Richard doesn’t budge, and so he has to try and get the boy off of him voluntarily. “And I am an old man.”

        Richard looks like he is on the verge of rolling his eyes, if he wasn’t aware that it would undermine any authority he has in this situation. “Twenty-eight is not old.”

        “It is ancient,” he protests, trying to keep the tone light but fooling no one. “There are fossils less ancient than me.”

        He earns a light smack on the arm for that. He might even concede that he deserves it. “You’re impossible.”

        _No, you are_ , he wants to say because Richard deserves better than whatever Tiago can offer him. Except at the same time, Tiago can’t let go of him either, which is why he cannot do what he knows he has to. So once again, rather than say the words that need to be said ( _I just don’t feel the same way, dear boy_ ), he counters, “Tell me something I haven’t heard before.”

        “I don’t understand you at all,” Richard complains, not for the first and certainly not for the last time. “I thought that you would….”

        Tiago blinks, feeling ill about what Richard could possibly have thought. Could it be that he has misread this situation, that Richard still feels obligated towards him? That he is saying these things because he thinks that is what is needed for Tiago to be happy, to keep him from disposing of the boy like he doesn’t matter? “You don’t owe me anything, Richard. I told you before, I don’t want anything from-”

        “That’s not the point of what I’m saying,” Richard cuts off, and he looks almost hurt that Tiago would think otherwise. It’s almost enough to make Tiago feel ashamed – and he is not one to be easily chastened – but it ceases to matter when Richard continues, “But why can’t I want something from you then?”

        And there it is again, that little burst of happiness as he stares up into bright green eyes that see only him. If this was anyone else, he would be pulling them down for a kiss, would hold that lithe body close to his and not let go until forced to, would cherish this moment for the rest of his life. He can only do the last of those three things though, and his smile is tinged with regret as he sits up, forcing Richard to scoot back onto his legs. It’s not enough to resist temptation, but he wants to hold onto this time for just a few more hours, and so he says, “It is late, and I am old and need my rest. We can talk about this in the morning.”

        Tiago expects Richard to protest like the child he wants him to be, but instead he is asked, “Promise?” Somehow the question makes Richard sound even younger than he already is, and Tiago feels even more like a cradle robber than before. But it’s still not enough to stop that ache in his chest and the intense desire to taste those dark lips, and he settles instead for ruffling that messy head of hair.

        “Of course,” he says, and he must sound sincere enough because the smile he receives in return is small yet blinding, and makes him feel a bit more complete even though he never would have known before that he was missing anything to begin with. “Of course.”

* * *

        They never do end up having that conversation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Oh,” he says, cool as you can be, but when she glares at him he knows she is seeing straight through his little act. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, ma’am?”_
> 
> _Her lips thin in displeasure, not appreciating his attempt at playing dumb. “You know exactly why I am here, Agent Rodriguez.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for beta-help on this story!

        The next morning, Tiago finds himself slipping out of the flat before Richard wakes up, locking it securely before he leaves. It is a cowardly move, fleeing before the sun has properly risen (although he would have left even earlier if it hadn’t taken him so long to untangle himself from the mess of limbs he found himself trapped in that morning), but he just couldn’t face what he had resolved to say once he was able to face the boy again. Anyway, this is better, he thinks. Once Richard wakes up and finds that Tiago has absconded, he will be better prepared for what will be said when they do have their conversation. It will not be easy, but at least it will be easier, and Tiago knows how to take those small victories where he can.

        His day at MI6 is normal, to the point of being boring, but he doesn’t mind as much. His mind is elsewhere, in that flat and with that boy, but luckily Mansfield doesn’t seem interested in reprimanding him this time. When it comes time to leave, he is torn between seeing Richard as soon as he can and holding onto the dream for just a bit more time, but he knows that sooner or later he will have to face their future, so it might as well be sooner. He debates getting egg tarts on the way back as a distraction for when he explains to Richard the many excellent reasons why they cannot be together (why they should not even _consider_ it), but dessert seems like a poor recompense for what he must say so he refrains.

        As it turns out, it is a good thing that he does not bother because when he enters his flat, the person to greet him is not an angry Richard but an infuriated Mansfield.

        “Oh,” he says coolly, but when she glares at him he knows she is seeing straight through his little act. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, ma’am?”

        Her lips thin in displeasure, not appreciating his attempt at playing dumb. “You know exactly why I am here, Agent Rodriguez.”

        _Agent._ Ah, he is in trouble now. He doesn’t let his concern show on his face though, instead setting his bag on the floor as he takes a casual look around the flat. No more than that is needed to confirm that Richard is not here unless the boy is hiding in the bathroom, but that seems unlikely considering how livid Mansfield is right now. Which only begs the question of where he is _now_.

        “You’ve already introduced yourself, I take it?” he asks with a smile that does not reach his eyes. At least there doesn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle (no _blood_ , at least), but he is all too aware that MI6 wouldn’t be very good at its job if it wasn’t capable of carrying children off with minimal fuss.

        She ignores the question (Mother always was good at ignoring what she did not want to answer), responding with one of her own. “What were you thinking, Rodriguez?”

        Mansfield sounds almost dismayed, like she honestly can’t believe how foolish he was. Her consternation is in no way soothed by his irreverent shrug and blithe response. “I suppose I wasn’t.”

        “Clearly.”

        _That_ irritates him. Not only does it discount Richard as some sort of… _mistake_ when the boy is so much more than that, but it discounts _him_ , which is unwarranted no matter the circumstances. He can never really understand why she makes such a show of disapproving his tendency to follow his instincts rather than mindlessly follow orders, no matter where they lead; after all, there is a reason why she values him over her other worker drones, even if she doesn’t like to admit it.

        Some of his irritation must show on his face because she crosses her arms, unimpressed by his displeasure with her attitude. She always was unsympathetic to the point of being cold, which made her both the most perfect and yet worst possible fit for MI6. He usually likes that about her, enjoying her takedowns of agents who just weren’t up to her (and his) standards, but it’s less enjoyable on the receiving end. “Did you honestly think that you were going to be able to get away with this?”

        “I wasn’t aware there was anything I needed to ‘get away with,’” Tiago replies evenly. He needs to be calm now, as worried as he is about Richard and what has been _done_ to the boy. He doesn’t know how much Mansfield knows, and he’s trained well enough not to show all his cards in exactly this type of situation. “Besides, what I do in my free time is my business.”

        “Don’t bullshit me, Tiago,” she responds, the words tense and far more angry than he would have expected. And considering the current situation, that is quite something. “You picked him up on one of your little side trips, didn’t you?”

        “It was necessary.”

        “Because you were hacking the Chinese.”

        He doesn’t immediately answer, instead circling the room. There’s a book lying open on the floor next to the dining table; apparently Richard had been reading when MI6 had come around. The spine is a bit more cracked than usual, no doubt a product of the boy’s anger at finding himself abandoned that morning, although he can practically see the boy regretting his impulsiveness immediately and trying to smooth out the binding. But it was too late by then, just as it is too late now, and so he turns to face Mansfield. “So you know.”

        To her credit, she doesn’t bother trying to deny it. Cold-hearted as she is, she is at least honest about this sort of thing. “Of course I know. The problem, Rodriguez, is that _they_ know as well.”

        _They_. There’s no need to ask who that refers to, and no wonder Mansfield is so angry. She never would have cared if he hadn’t been caught, but how could they possibly have, when he is so much better than them, and… ah. _Richard_. Obviously it wouldn’t be Tiago’s hacking that attracted the attention of the Chinese; he is too good at covering his tracks. It could only be Richard’s clumsy first efforts, the same efforts that had attracted his attention, and so it appears that he was right to take action when he did. Unfortunately, his quick thinking apparently did not have a retroactive effect. The Chinese must have caught onto the fact that there was someone lurking in their systems, resulting in the current awkward scenario that they find themselves.

        At this point, he could try to justify himself, or perhaps explain what happened. But deep down he knows that it does not make a difference because Mansfield doesn’t care for those things, so he asks precisely what he should _not_ be asking because he cannot help himself. “Where is he?”

        “What does it matter?”

        He slams his hands onto the table, surprising both himself and Mansfield as he yells, “ _Where is he!_ ”

        Startled as she may be by that little display, Mansfield is not so easily intimidated as she simply orders, “Sit down.”

        Tiago shakes his head and says through gritted teeth, “No.” No, because he can’t, because he doesn’t know where Richard is, because he’s _scared_. He has never felt this scared before, not for himself and certainly not for another person, but he cannot deny that right now he is terrified for what will become of the boy.

        “ _Sit down_.”

        Slowly, resentfully, he sits, struggling to keep his breathing even. He regrets this loss of self-control, but regret will do nothing for him now. Or for Richard. The only thing he can do is try and make Mansfield see how _valuable_ Richard is, how much worth the boy has, and how that worth outweighs the petty concerns of the Chinese. He cannot do those things if he is angry, and so he closes his eyes and forces himself to calm down, opening them only when he feels himself closing off from both the anger and the fear.

        Mansfield nods once, not really in approval but more in acknowledgment of his efforts, before asking, “Why did you let him live?”

        Tiago shrugs, feigning nonchalance in an effort to show that he isn’t being affected by his emotions when he answers, “Why not? If we started killing people just because they were associated with someone difficult, we’d run out of people to kill.”

        “There were others? What did you do with them? You can’t expect me to believe you have them hidden away as well.”

        He laughs dryly at the thought of letting _those_ people live after what they had put Richard through. “I disposed of them. They _were_ difficult.”

        “So is the boy.”

        That sobers him up quickly, but he has to remind himself not to lose control again. Mansfield won’t respect his decisions and judgment if he lashes out again, like the child he keeps trying to make Richard out to be. “Not in the same way. It wasn’t his choice.”

        “That rarely changes anything,” she points out, just as he himself had told the boy not too many months back. Richard had accepted it easily then, knowing that motivations did not change the effect of actions, and it is ironic that now it is Tiago who struggles to accept that, especially when he knows better. It might be true – it probably is – but it’s not the whole story. A single action alone does not define a person, and Richard has proven that he is not so easily defined. He is so many things, and being forced to hack the Chinese should not be the end of him. Tiago is determined to make sure of that.

        “So what do you intend to do now?” he asks, leaning back in his chair like he is bored with the conversation. “Give them an apology and perhaps a fruit basket for their trouble?”

        “If you think that will be enough to calm them down, you are far less intelligent than I have given you credit for,” Mansfield retorts. She’s tapping her fingers on the side of the chair, looking him over as she gauges how to tell him what she is about to say. “They want the hacker.”

        _No_ , is what he wants to say. This is what he had expected, of course, but once again, hearing the words spoken out loud is so much more concrete than simply knowing them in his head. The Chinese want Richard, to punish him for making them look like fools, and he knows without asking what Mansfield means to do. But he will not let her get away with it without admitting to it, and so he stares her straight in the eyes, refusing to look away for a single second as he says more than asks, “And you intend to give him to them?”

        “Of course.”

        “They’ll torture him,” he points out quietly. The thought of what creative agonies they could inflict on the boy, of pale skin bleeding and that delicate body hunched over in pain… it is a credit to his willpower that he doesn’t toss over the table in his race to get to Mansfield and drag Richard’s location from her at gunpoint if he has to.

        And it is hard, it is so very, _very_ hard, when all she replies is, “Of course they will.”

        He stares at her, and she just looks back at him evenly, with an expression that seems to ask why they need to have this conversation. He knows these things, as he must considering how long he has been at MI6, but that just means he knows what terrible things human beings are capable of, and all of it can be done to that boy. “He’s just a child.”

        The words sound plaintive, even to him, and Mansfield is unmoved. “He is eighteen, a traitor, and more to the point, a liability.”

        “He’s just a _child_ ,” he repeats. “Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

        “Do you?” Mansfield stops tapping against the chair, settling her hands on her lap so that she looks rather like a schoolteacher being forced to discipline a problem student. But they are not talking about a mere slap on the wrist, and Tiago’s hands clench slightly under the table as she continues, “You know as well as I do what this business requires of us. The Chinese are not happy with this situation, and I will not risk the Handover because of one person. This is far bigger than the both of us or that young man, and-”

        “You understand what you are proposing?” he demands, cutting her off. He is not interested in hearing the usual pithy statements about Queen and country and the greater good. That is just a distraction from what they are actually discussing because for that greater good, someone will be paying the price, and that is who they must talk about. “You understand what they will do to him?”

        Because it is all that he can see right now. Broken fingers and cruel beatings, prolonged suspension and electric shocks – Richard will try to be strong at the beginning, but there is only so much a person could take before they break, and the boy will certainly break. And once he has broken, reduced to nothing more than tears and screams and hollow in the eyes, they will kill him, disposing of him like he does not matter when that is the furthest thing from the _truth_ , but it is as if people are deliberately refusing to see that.

        Mansfield especially refuses to see it because if she does, she wouldn’t be able to so easily say, “If that is what is necessary to protect everyone.”

        “And doesn’t everyone include him?” he demands, beyond exasperated with this conversation. A part of him doesn’t even know why he is bothering with conversation, when he should be leaving this flat and trying to find the boy. Mansfield has probably anticipated that potential course of action though, and he wouldn’t be surprised if some of the stupider agents are waiting outside, too idiotic to question whether what they are doing is actually right.

        “You are trying my patience, Tiago.” It is exactly the sort of answer one gives when the real answer is unsatisfactory.

        “And you make me wonder why we bother in the first place,” he snaps. “The individual matters. What is the point of saving everyone if you can’t even save one person?”

        “Because sometimes that is the only way of saving everyone. You know that as well as I do,” Mansfield says, giving him that long look that should make him feel ashamed, but the only person who should be ashamed in this room is _not_ him. He suddenly hates her so very much that he is sure she must be able to see it on his face, but that doesn’t stop her from continuing, “Besides, only the truly arrogant believe that they can save everyone.”

        He shrugs again. He’s never claimed to be humble, and he’s not about to start now. “He deserves better.”

        “Doesn’t everyone?” Which is entirely beside the point, but he is given no opportunity to state the obvious when she abruptly demands, “You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?”

        Even though the way she asks doesn’t make him feel _completely_ like a child molester, he has no interest in answering the question. It’s not her business, and he is not interested in giving her any justification for ignoring his arguments on this matter. And she will, considering his affection for the boy the actual reason for why he is telling her that this is wrong, that Richard should be protected rather than cast aside.

        But his judgment is not so impaired, which is why he is still able to consider the possibility that perhaps he should be welcoming this opportunity to rid himself of the boy and all of the weaknesses that Richard has come to represent. Because Mansfield is right; all the things she has said are things that he knows and for so long, accepted blindly. He just cannot accept it now, not when it is Richard at stake, but isn’t that the point? Isn’t Richard the proof that it can’t always be about the greater good, but the individual as well?

        Because Richard is so many things more than a sacrificial lamb. Richard is… Richard is eighteen, even if he sometimes seems both too old and too young for his age. Richard can work wonders with a computer, even if he will never be better than Tiago (but that is fine; no one is). Richard likes to read and can lose himself in books, whether they are texts about programming or novels about dragon-slaying. Richard is learning how to cook, and he’s not half bad considering his lack of experience and the occasional lack of ingredients in their kitchen. Richard is intelligent and understands the world far better than anyone should have to. Richard doesn’t smile often, and when he does, his smiles can be mere flickers, there one moment and gone the next. But Tiago has become good at catching them, and every time he does it fills him with an unbridled joy that he didn’t know was possible before. Richard has value that is not easily measured in terms of political worth, and that must be protected, especially from those who are supposed to be looking out for him.

        And more than all of those things combined, Richard makes him feel so very _alive_ again, and now that he has that, he simply cannot let go of it.

        But he can’t say those things. Mansfield isn’t interested in any of these things, and he can see that as she casts an impatient glance at the bed, which is not made (the one chore Richard could never be bothered with, not seeing the point of making the bed when it will be ruined that very evening) but instead piled high with Richard’s scribblings. He wonders if he should pull them out to show to her, while explaining how brilliant the boy can be ( _is_ ). Except that isn’t what makes Richard so important; in a way, this isn’t even about Richard’s worth. It’s about his own because Tiago… Tiago is arrogant and has always striven to be the best and to do great things, but Richard makes him feel like he’s _succeeded_ at something without having to save the entire world. In a way he simply cannot explain, Richard makes him a better person, something that Mansfield has been trying for all this time but has never succeeded at like the boy has.

        To say any of that would be to play into Mother’s hands though; she already sees his attraction for the boy, and he must make her see that it isn’t the _point_. Otherwise, she will use what she no doubt considers his ‘emotional vulnerability’ against him, and against Richard as well.

        And so all he can do is bring this conversation back to her level and use the only terms that she can understand, which is why he says, “You’ve seen what he has done, but that was without any education. He was completely self-taught, and already did so much. Can you imagine what he will be able to do with some guidance? He will be very good indeed, an asset, really, and-”

        “He’s not an asset,” Mansfield interjects sharply, and Tiago can see that she’s already written him off. “He’s a bloody liability.”

        “So am I,” he snaps back, and she gives him a look that can curdle milk.

        “Yes, I’m starting to see that,” she replies coldly.

        There will be no getting through to her now. He never really stood a chance, but he didn’t want to believe that because he can’t… _won’t_ lose Richard this way. The boy deserves better than that, not just from him but from _her_ as well, and so he again asks, his voice flat and empty, “What did you do to him?”

        Mother purses her lips, unhappy that he is still challenging her authority even though she is making the biggest mistake of her wretched life. She has already made up her mind and doesn’t like that he will not accept it, and he wonders if she is enjoying making him suffer like this for daring to undermine her in this way. “That is no longer your concern, agent.”

        “That is not for you to decide,” he replies, and he is losing his temper again. He doesn’t care. Calm has got him nowhere so far, so he will let the anger carry him off if that is what it will take. “That is _never_ for you to decide.”

        “And yet someone has to make the decision,” she counters coldly, getting to her feet. He stands as well, although he knows better than to take a step towards her. No doubt she will call her puppets in to shoot him down if necessary, and then she can present an extra corpse to the Chinese too. And she would too, without batting an eye or shedding a tear because that is just the type of person that she is.

        “He is not yours to take,” he snarls, but she does not care in the slightest.

        “You forget your place, Rodriguez. We both know he is not yours to keep.” With that, she turns her back on him, secure in her position as she adds, “You are to stay here until this is taken care of. I will not tolerate any further interference from you. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”

        “And if I try to leave?” _If I try to find him?_

        “You won’t.” And without a single look back, she walks out, leaving him and his rage in an empty flat that feels just as much a stranger as she does.

* * *

        Two days later, Mother gives him to the Chinese.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _-run- he types._
> 
> _He receives nothing for long moments. But just as he is starting to wonder if the quartermaster has shown his true nature and fled, he gets a curt, -from what-_
> 
> _-you cannot stop it- he answers, not bothering to address the question. His mercy only goes so far. –run while you still can, quartermaster-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everlasting appreciation to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for their invaluable beta-work.

        Raoul Silva wakes up to the crash of waves.

        He lies in his bed for long minutes, staring at his ceiling as he listens to the ocean surrounding his island. It is rare that he indulges himself like this, preferring to make the most of his day, but he thinks he can be forgiven as it has been many weeks since he slept so well. Sleep is hard to come by when revenge is on the mind, and even more so when nightmares are waiting in the wings to destroy him. So for once he closes his eyes and sinks back into the sheets. If he sinks any further, he will drown within himself, and no one is capable or willing to pull him free.

        But that is fine; he learned long ago not to depend on the mercy of others. Mother had made that clear enough when she handed Tiago to the Chinese with her sincerest apologies, in return for a smooth Transition and some useless agents. She must have been so pleased with herself, not only getting rid of his dissidence but turning his ‘folly’ into her personal gains. Tiago, for his part, was anything but pleased with the situation.

        He remembers every inch of that cell they had thrown him in, and every second he had spent wasting away. Oh, there had been the occasional question, but information wasn’t the point of that little exercise. No, what they had wanted was retribution for making them look the fool, hacking their systems like that, and they’d made their unhappiness known by inflicting truly absurd levels of pain. What Tiago had worried would happen to Richard was only a fraction of what his generous hosts were capable of, but that was the least of his worries.

        Tiago had tried, more than a few times, to ask about the boy. At times, the thought of Richard was the only thing that had kept him sane, although sanity was not an asset in that hellhole. At other times, the thought of Richard only hastened his downward spiral into madness because they never even acknowledged his questions, leaving him with too much time to think about how they were hurting Richard the same way they were hurting him. Or worse. His mind spent too many hours playing in excruciating detail the horrors that were being inflicted on the boy, and hours more imagining Richard losing a little more of himself at the end of each day, with no one to pick up the pieces.

        Eventually, it occurred to him that Mansfield might have ‘taken care’ of Richard herself, giving the Chinese the boy’s corpse along with Tiago’s still warm body to torment. It spoke ill of his morality that the thought of the boy’s death could offer him such comfort, but it wasn’t implausible. It would have been the closest thing to mercy that Mother was capable of, and in the end, he clung to that thought because it was better than thinking about how badly that wisp of a boy would break under their host’s increasingly creative tortures. And Richard would. Anybody would.

        Tiago certainly had.

        It was his sureness of Richard’s demise (whether at the hands of Mother or the Chinese or both, it did not matter) that finally permitted Tiago to take the only escape route available to him. Pulling out that cyanide capsule and biting into it had been an act of desperation; it promised nothing but an ugly death, but an ugly death was preferable to what he had to look forward to. Richard was dead so he had no reason to endure the torture, even if he had always sworn that he would never use (would never _need_ to use) that last resort. But that was before he realized just how much pain a human body could last through without giving up. While his body might have continued existing, his mind had certainly not, so really it was just a matter of the former finally catching up with the latter. It was a matter of finally allowing himself to _escape_.

        Except it had turned out that he had underestimated his body’s will to live. The poison pill had not done its job, and even now, at any moment, he can still hear those screams of agony as his face had melted into itself, the bone of his jaw collapsing as the cyanide ate into his skull. If he had wished for death before, it was _nothing_ compared to his prayers then, but still, _still_ some part of him had survived despite his cries for it to simply end.

        He vaguely recalls his torturers finding him writhing on the floor, shrieking from the pain. Their horror at their grisly discovery might have been amusing if he had been in any position to enjoy it.

        They’d released him soon after. As far as they were concerned, Tiago Rodriguez was a dead man, permanently disfigured and mind destroyed. They hadn’t been completely wrong. The creature that had staggered back to that tiny flat was no longer recognizable as Mansfield’s pet agent, or even human for that matter.

        He doesn’t remember why Tiago had bothered returning to the flat. He doesn’t know what he had expected to find there, except confirmation that that life was over. Tiago had certainly found that. The rent had been paid through the year so the flat was still technically his, but there was little left for him when he broke in. His computer equipment was gone, as was Richard, both taken by MI6 at Mansfield’s behest. And more to the point, Tiago – with his idealistic little views and belief, with his ridiculous dream that perhaps one day he could have a quiet life, just the two of them – was gone as well.

        But Raoul does remember the moment he had decided, standing there in the ruins of a life he no longer recognized. Tiago had to go, not only for the practical purpose of ensuring that Mother never saw him coming, but because Tiago wanted to do nothing but mourn his losses. There was no time for self-pity though, not then. It was for that reason that he allowed his rage and hatred to sweep Tiago away, rather than permitting the despair to drag him under again. If he could not have something better (if he could not have _Richard_ ), he would settle for the next best thing.

        What left that flat was not Tiago Rodriguez, but the thing that would become Raoul Silva. He might not have had the name in mind as he walked away, but he had his purpose. Mother had taken so much from him before betraying him simply because he dared to challenge her outdated views. Now he intended to take _everything_ from her. It wouldn’t just be about revenge, but his own special brand of _mercy_ as well. Perhaps not for her, but for all those surrounding her. They were the ones who would have their lives ruined if she had her way with them.

        It hadn’t taken him long to establish that new life for himself, during which time Mansfield was promoted to M. If he had not hated her before, he certainly hated her then, and how generously her career ambitions had been rewarded for stepping over the bodies of those she destroyed. He’d dedicated everything to destroying her, and destroying the one thing that mattered to her (MI6, MI6, _MI6_ ), and it was for that sole purpose that he continued to drag himself through each and every day.

        So once again, in honor of that sentiment, he gets up again today. As he rises, he glances out the window at the ocean, and remembers a time that he and Richard had once watched these same waters. He doesn’t let himself think of the boy too often, since there’s no point in dwelling in the past (especially when all it does is make him hurt more), but suddenly, all he remembers is Richard smiling at him, one hand tightly holding onto his, and a laugh he so rarely heard but wanted so much more of.

        It is a beautiful memory, but it is still just a memory. Richard is gone, as is Tiago, and only Raoul Silva is left behind to pick up the pieces. It would be best for everyone to banish that memory completely because the last thing he needs is sentimentality slowing him down. And with that in mind, Raoul turns away from the view and prepares himself for the new day and the end game that awaits.

* * *

        Breakfast is a quick and quiet affair, as Sévérine knows better than to try and strike up meaningless conversation. She is silent when he excuses himself before she does even though she had already been at the breakfast table when he arrived. She doesn’t care. She never did, which is fine because the feeling is mutual.

        He spends the next few hours wandering aimlessly through his island, exploring the fallen wreckage. He’s explored every inch of this place several times over, and although there is nothing new left to discover, he appreciates it in a different way. Soon MI6 will be a wreckage as well, concrete crumbling beneath his touch. The rats will survive, as they are wont to do, but that is fine. The more people to witness what is to happen, the better.

        In the early afternoon, he heads back to the server room, taking a little time to check in on his other projects. It’s almost laughable, the ease with which he can take down a few governments and economies while he waits for London to shake off its sleep, but the work is necessary to fund his main venture. He wonders what Richard would say, if he had access to this type of technology. Most likely the boy would be too busy gaping in wonder to form a coherent sentence, and the thought of Richard’s stammering almost makes him smile. But the last thing he needs is to be distracted by the dead, when he still has the living to worry about.

        Starting with MI6’s new quartermaster. The last had abruptly retired, but Raoul can read between the lines. Boothroyd was a victim of politics because a sacrifice was needed to appease the bureaucrats. If his departure wasn’t the result of an outright dismissal, then the Major must have jumped to avoid being unceremoniously pushed out. It didn’t matter that the quartermaster had nothing to do with the stolen hard drive; Mother doesn’t exactly need a legitimate reason to make someone a scapegoat.

        Raoul doesn’t care about MI6’s internal squabbling, and he doesn’t care about Mother’s newest toy either. Still, it is useful to take advantage of the adjustment period since no doubt the new Q is just as outdated as the last, but without having yet got his bearings. Even if the new quartermaster is interested in network security (unlikely, that), MI6 is still a bureaucracy, old and slow and terribly out-of-date, and the poor man will probably be spending his first few months filling out paperwork rather than noticing all the backdoors Raoul has slipped into MI6’s systems to give him access when he pleased.

        That had also been too easy, given that everyone with an ounce of computer savvy had been pulled from their current work to track down the hard drive. The hard drive had never been the goal; it was just a distraction, with everyone so focused on the loss of a list that they failed to realize what was happening in their own backyard.

        So with everyone looking in the other direction, he saunters right in. It would be easy, terribly easy, to steal documents and information and spread them across the web, allowing everyone to see all of MI6’s dirty little secrets. Just a click here, a typed command there, and it wouldn’t just be those NATO agents at risk. He could pull up the identities of every double-o agent, every individual hiding like cowards behind an initial or number, and take away their ability to sacrifice others in secret. He could even start with the new quartermaster, and on a whim, he starts to access those files-

        -only to be batted away almost instantly, like an errant child caught reaching for the cookie jar before dinner time.

        The backdoor he’s using shuts down, unceremoniously ejecting him from of the system. Raoul frowns, before breaking out into a wide grin. Well, it looks like someone has noticed his presence and was already starting to lock him out, attacking those backdoors he’s been leaving here and there. Instinctively, he knows that this must be the new quartermaster, which is impressive. He has no real evidence to back up his conclusion, but he’s always been fond of the direct approach, and so he enters into one of his other backdoors and makes the necessary introductions.

_-hello, quartermaster-_

        He lets the message scatter into the system, where it is quickly picked up. However, a response is not immediately forthcoming as he is instead forced out for the second time. Raoul laughs, finding another entrance and pointing out, - _now, now, there’s no need to be rude-_

        Raoul lets himself out before he can be pushed out, but quickly switches to another text-based backdoor. He’s had months to litter the system with his little gifts, on the off-chance that there was someone clever enough to notice, a decision that is now paying off in spades.

        This time, instead of trying to head him off, his opponent finally has the courtesy to respond, - _you seem to have me at a disadvantage, sir-_

        _Sir_. Oh how very droll. He should be more upset at the inconvenience being created, but it’s just so _amusing_. And it has been some time before anyone has challenged him like this so he just replies, _-my apologies-_

        - _your apologies would be better taken if you immediately exited my systems-_ the quartermaster counters dryly, even as he (or she, Raoul must account for all the possibilities) continues the futile attempts to keep Raoul out.

        - _then you should do a better job at keeping people out_ \- Not that the quartermaster isn’t doing an admirable job; Raoul is surprised that M would choose someone who is so capable. Obviously he should have paid more attention to this particular appointment, but he has been busy over the last few months, and it never occurred to him that any fool in Q-branch would be capable of stopping him. Few could, really, and while the quartermaster will fail, it’s still remarkable enough.

        He wonders abruptly if Richard would have become this good, if given the opportunity to do so.

        The thought of that boy and the loss of all that potential (not just for the boy, but for himself as well) has its immediate effect, wiping away any humor in this situation and reminding him that he has a job to do. But it also reminds him that skill like this should be rewarded, and he decides to generously give the quartermaster a chance.

        _-run_ \- he types.

        He receives nothing for long moments. But just as he is starting to wonder if the quartermaster has shown his true nature and fled, he gets a curt, _-from what-_

        - _you cannot stop it-_ he answers, not bothering to address the question. His mercy only goes so far. – _run while you still can, quartermaster-_

        And then he adds an incentive, although he really does not need to, continuing, _-if you run now, you might be able to save more lives than you would failing to stop what is to come_ -

        It is his turn to be rude now, using his considerable skills to lock the quartermaster out of his (or her) own system before putting all of his efforts into accessing the environmental controls. He pauses only to send a pleasant greeting to M herself, just to remind her that she is at fault for the inevitable deaths that will occur, before typing in his final commands.

        A few seconds later, Mother’s office explodes. He sits back in his chair, watching the CCTV footage with a grim smile as the pieces continue to fall into place, rather like the shards of glass and rubble that are dancing across the screen.

* * *

        “Patrice is dead.”

        “Oh?” he says absent-mindedly, not really listening.

        “Yes, he is.”

        Raoul responds with a non-committal sound, and he can practically hear Sévérine’s lips tightening in anger. She can be predictable like that, although he has no idea why she is so displeased. It’s not sentiment since she never got along well with Patrice (or anyone, for that matter; for someone whose job is so dependent on people desiring her, Sévérine’s people skills can be severely lacking at times). Perhaps she is angry with how blithe he sounds, as if he should care more about the death of one of his employees. Perhaps she is starting to realize how expendable they all are, and that she could very well be next.

        She is.

        After his attack on MI6, everything had happened just as he predicted. The rats retreated to their underground tunnels on some misguided assumption that a few feet of soil and bedrock would protect them. 007 returned to the call of duty, cold and steely and useless as ever before. And Mother is still being thoroughly humiliated by the bureaucrats seeking any political advantage, berated both for losing the list and for allowing such an audacious attack on British soil.

        But humiliation is not all that Raoul is looking for (it is nowhere near sufficient given all of Mother’s sins), so he had continued to set the stage, accepting a meaningless job to murder some art critic or art dealer, he doesn’t know. The money is good, but more important than that is the location: the goal is to draw MI6 to his part of the world. That was why after dispatching Sévérine and Patrice to Shanghai, he had put out the word of Patrice’s location, knowing that it would end up in Mother’s hands sooner rather than later. And once again, he is correct, although it’s a shame that he had to lose Patrice. A shame, but not unexpected, and if all goes well, he won’t have need of that man’s services any longer anyway.

        “Who killed him?” he finally remembers to ask, frowning at the computer screen. The new quartermaster has tightened up security yet _again_ , making it difficult to concentrate both on this conversation and breaking into Mansfield’s laptop. He really should try harder to look up the new quartermaster; his attempts at going through MI6’s databases had come up short, as everything on the newcomer had been thoroughly scoured from the system. Not that it matters; he doesn’t need to know an identity to predict what the quartermaster will do, as that just takes an understanding of human nature and MI6’s bureaucracy. Still, it would have been nice to put a face to the person causing him so many problems. Perhaps he will have to settle for stopping by for a friendly chat (which may or may not end up with a bullet to the quartermaster’s brain) once he’s in MI6.

        “An agent,” Sévérine says, and he nearly sighs with irritation at her passive-aggressiveness.

        “That much is a given,” Raoul observes. He also observes how unhappy she sounds, and asks, “007, I presume?”

        “Yes.”

        That would explain her irritation. No doubt Sévérine had hoped that Mother would send someone _competent_ , a shining white knight that would be strong enough to slay the dragon and sweep her away to a better place. It’s a stupid dream, especially since she’s seen how well that worked the last time around, when it had been him playing at being the knight instead of the monster. At least he was honest about what he wanted from her; Mother’s rats might make her feel a little more wanted, but given MI6’s track record, she’d be dead within a fortnight.

        “Such a dangerous little man,” he sighs, pushing back from his computer and leaning back in his chair so that he can rest his feet on the desk. “I assume he got the casino chip from Patrice?”

        “Yes,” she repeats, sullen as ever.

        He nods, even though she can’t see it. “Good, good. Then you should be heading over to Macau now, perhaps take a moment or two to enjoy the sights. I’ll be sure to send some more bodyguards to meet you, sweet girl. To keep you _safe_ , of course.”

        They both know that the guards are being sent to keep her in line, but it’s not something she can protest without giving her little schemes away. If he was with her now, she would be staring at him in open anger, her long fingers clenching and unclenching in an unconscious desire to wrap around his neck. Luckily for her, he is not there because if he was he would have her killed without a second thought. She doesn’t seem to recognize her good fortune though, gritting out a “Thank you” that he doesn’t believe, doesn’t believe at _all_.

        “You’re welcome,” he still replies generously, a response that no doubt makes her hate him all the more. She might even be desperate enough to betray him to Bond at this rate, despite knowing how broken the man is, but he’s accounted for her betrayals in his plans as well. In fact, he will be a bit disappointed if she doesn’t. “Do wear something pretty when you meet the man, will you? It is always best to look your finest when death is on the horizon.”

        Raoul doesn’t bother waiting for a response, hanging up on the whore and tossing the phone aside. With that out of the way, he swings his feet back off the desk, straightening his back with a languid stretch before returning his attentions to his computer. The quartermaster is nowhere to be seen (likely distracted by another one of his traps), making it easy to walk right into Mother’s computer. He lets out a delighted laugh when he sees that she is poring over the last message he sent her; apparently a little explosion or two is all that is needed to get her full attention.

        He shoos it away though, filling her screen with pretty skulls and a little game for her to play with. If she had any sense, she wouldn’t press anything, but would instead summon the quartermaster from his or her hole to inspect her laptop. But he knows that she will not be able to resist because this is _personal_ ; she will not leave this to someone else to handle. So of course she presses the button, immediately causing the first video of embedded MI6 agents to upload for her (and the world’s) viewing pleasure.

        And thus five more lives are ruined directly by her actions, five more lives destroyed because she could not leave things well enough alone.

        It is not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Not as long as Mother is in charge, which is exactly why it is so necessary to rectify that.

* * *

        Everything continues to go according to plan. Raoul greets Mr. Bond with a smile and far more hospitality than the man deserves, but he can afford to be lavish. His current circumstances are a far cry from all those years ago, when Tiago did not even have an extra chair to offer Richard at the dinner table (although like so many things, the change is not necessarily for the better).

        Unfortunately, 007 is rather less amusing than Richard was. At least the boy had at least been intelligent enough to recognize that he did not owe his parents anything and had severed his ties accordingly. Bond, despite having years more of experience (and betrayals), still clings to his faith in an old woman who has already betrayed him time and time again.

        That is why Bond is able to ignore Raoul’s advice so easily, choosing to believe that he is being told about Tiago’s excellence as an agent and his failed evaluations because Raoul is jealous of M’s favor. Nothing could be further from the truth. Raoul tells him these things as a warning, to show him that Mother’s esteem is poison. It might not be as fast-acting as the cyanide that ruined his face, but it is far more effective. After all, Tiago was her favorite once too, until he had dared to challenge her authority. Not content with taking Richard from him, Mother had made sure to take _everything_ from him. Except she hadn’t quite succeeded, unable to take his hatred and anger, and that is why they are now here, the last two rats.

        Despite being a survivor, Bond is truly disappointing. The way the agent replies with the usual drivel about making his ‘own choices’? It is pathetic. It’s not even _true_ ; even putting aside the fact that Mansfield is manipulating the man’s every move, Bond is apparently unable to recognize that _Raoul_ is manipulating him as well. All this time, Raoul has always been one step ahead, making sure everyone is exactly where he wants them to be so that he can make his finishing moves. Loyalty makes the agent as predictable as he is stupid, and soon Raoul begins amusing himself by testing 007’s limits.

        That is why he finds himself lingering across Bond’s chest, exploring the badly healed scar that was placed there by the woman Bond refuses to give up on. He’d once dreamed of doing this to Richard, although he would not have tied the boy down (he would not have needed to). His fingers would have danced across the pale skin, pausing at tiny scars left by years of abuse. The boy had never spoken of those marks, but he hadn’t needed to. Tiago could read them all.

        But that is where the similarities between them end. Bond is too muscular, too rigid, too hard. There’s a tension that runs through his body, a predatory instinct to strike that he does not act on only because he is tied to a chair. Where Richard would have unconsciously drifted closer, Bond tires to surreptitiously lean away. It makes his retort ( _“What makes you think this is my first time?_ ) rather hollow, just like the rest of him. There is nothing substantive to him, nothing worth pursuing, unlike the boy.

        Except Richard is no longer here. In his place is this broken man, who Mansfield apparently has deemed fit to keep around when she wouldn’t even consider letting the boy live.

        It is the reminder that Richard is dead and gone, not Bond’s lack of amusement at his molestations, that causes him to draw back. Really, he should not allow himself to think of Richard like this. He’s been quite good about it up to now, focusing on his future instead of his past. But now that he’s getting closer to MI6, closer to redeeming his past, it’s harder to set aside that incredible creature who became such an integral part of his life in only a few short months. It has been fifteen years and yet there’s a permanent ache, like missing the boy has caused its own physical pains. Without the persistent guilt of taking advantage of someone so vulnerable, he is able to concentrate solely on how much he had loved the boy, and how different things could have been if only Mansfield had seen how things could be. But no, she had been so averse, willing herself blind just so that she could validate a decision that was simply indefensible.

        Bond is just as blind as Mother is, which is why this conversation is quickly becoming tiresome. Raoul barely puts any effort into it, wandering from computer to computer in what is ostensibly a display of his power but is really just boredom. 007 is entirely uninterested though, so Raoul decides to make a point that even the agent can understand, inviting him outside where the whore is waiting for them.

        Sévérine had at least heeded his advice, taking care to wear something pretty. The wine red dress goes well with the dark blood dripping from her lips, and her hatred makes her eyes light up just as Richard’s had when cracking one of his codes. He doesn’t really need to do this, using her to show Bond how absolutely ineffectual the agent is at saving anyone. But he wants to.

        Her poorly planned betrayal aside, it’s not her fault, why he hates her so. When he had saved her from that whorehouse, he had wanted her to be someone she was not. She might have resembled the boy, with dark curls and expressive eyes and lips that were so naturally red, but that only made the differences all the more unacceptable. Unlike Richard, Sévérine could never let go of her past. She had bottled it up and let it consume her, so that was the only thing that defined her. Raoul could understand that inability to move on, but that wasn’t what he _wanted_ from her. She was supposed to go on with her life, to become something more than what he had rescued her from. There was so much about her that _could have been_ , and her squandering that made him hate her.

        All these people, so less capable than Richard… why was it that they had lived when he had not? Richard had made Tiago come round to the idea that people mattered, that everyone deserved a chance to live up to their potential. But then Richard had died and so did Tiago, leaving Raoul with the knowledge that no one is worth anything. Mother should be proud that she taught him so well.

        And as for Sévérine, she should be grateful that he made it so quick.

        007 doesn’t even bat an eye at another life that he has failed to save. Instead, he continues to act the part of a good little tin soldier, killing Raoul’s men and summoning MI6 instead of taking matters into his own hands. Just as Tiago did not kill Richard all those years ago, Bond does not try to kill Raoul now. They both know that he really should. Unfortunately for him and all of MI6, his training has been too effective, and he will blindly obey his orders. It isn’t easy though. Raoul can see his struggle, as every ounce of survival instinct screams for him to kill his captive, to eliminate the threat standing before him.

        But Bond has his instructions, and so he does not. Raoul takes immense satisfaction in knowing that Mansfield’s orders will be the end of them all.

* * *

        Watching Mother walk away, refusing to even acknowledge the agent that she sold out all those years ago, does not hurt as much as he had been worried it would. In fact, putting the prosthetic back in hurts far more than her heartlessness. The pain is worth the dramatics at least; the fleeting look of disgust that crossed Bond’s face will warm him to his grave. 007 has now seen how easily Mother will dispose of others, and will hopefully keep that in mind the next time she orders him to his death.

        But for him, it is time to wait. He waits for the quartermaster to plug his laptop in, as Raoul knows that the temptation to get into his system will be too great even for someone who should know better. He waits for all of his little traps to be sprung once his system easily takes over MI6’s. He waits-

        He looks up sharply when the glass door slides open, and a thin, pale, _familiar_ figure steps in.

        Raoul stares at a face which has not changed in fifteen years, and for the first time since, wonders if he has finally, _finally_ , gone mad.

        “Hello,” Richard says quietly. “Tiago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the inaccuracies of the second scene, but as soon as I started trying to do research, I got scared off by mysterious phone calls which were probably the NSA tapping my lines. So that was the end of that, sorry. :D


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re supposed to be dead.”_
> 
> _“Funny,” Richard says in a tone that suggests he doesn’t quite mean what he is saying. “She said the same thing about you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for their wonderful beta-work.

        Raoul stares. And stares. And _stares_ because he isn’t sure if what he is seeing is… no, it _can’t_ be real. Richard cannot be here, Richard is dead, Richard is _gone_ , and yet Richard is standing only a few feet away, looking straight at him. It’s enough to make Raoul wonder if cyanide has long-term hallucinatory effects, but he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating the boy, the past fifteen years, or himself at this point. Perhaps all three.

        Richard looks like he might be wondering the same thing himself, his nervousness betrayed by the bite of a lip that is as dark as Raoul remembers it to be. Even through his shock, Raoul is possessed by the inexorable desire to run his fingers along that finely-defined mouth. He had suppressed that desire until it was too late, and the timing has only worsened since. As if to remind them both of that fact, the guard clears his throat and asks, “Quartermaster? Is there something I can help you with?”

        _Quartermaster_. Although this also takes a moment too long to process, it is finally enough to push Raoul back to reality as he realizes that it was _Richard_ who has been making his work so difficult over the last few weeks. Not that he had even delayed the inevitable, Raoul was still too good for that, but the thought that it was the boy….

        Except looking at Richard now, Raoul knows that ‘boy’ is a misnomer at best. Richard is no longer a child (was _never_ truly a child, only that Tiago had desperately needed him to be one), although he still looks so much the same. The wild dark curls, the sharp green eyes, the pale skin stretched over a frame that is far too thin… Raoul almost wants to ask if the young man has been eating properly, but he remembers that no matter how much Richard ate, he never seemed able to keep on any of the weight. It had been part of the reason why the boy had always looked so vulnerable, and why he still looks so today.

        That vulnerability will one day be used against him, no doubt, but there is no denying the _presence_ in the way Richard holds himself. He may still look so very young, but his demeanor is anything but as he addresses the guard without looking away from Raoul, “You may leave, Thompson.”

        No hesitance, no explanations, and certainly no room for argument. The words, while shaped like an invitation, are unmistakably an order. From anyone else, the guard would have been scrambling to obey. But because it is Richard, and authority only goes so far when one barely looks of age, he hesitates. “We’re not supposed to leave the prisoner unattended.”

        “Then it’s a good thing I’ll be here,” Richard replies brusquely, still not looking away from Raoul. Raoul suspects that his resolve is slipping, as if he’s not sure he wants to be here at all. Raoul really cannot blame him, and remains quiet as he repeats with significantly less courtesy, “You may _leave_.”

        The guard goes this time, the door sliding shut so that it is just Raoul and the Quartermaster, Tiago and the boy. But as he looks over the young man standing before him, he cannot deny that two of those people are long gone. That is why he can’t help but point out, “You’re supposed to be dead.”

        “Funny,” Richard says in a tone that suggests he doesn’t quite mean what he is saying. “She said the same thing about you.”

        Silence. It is odd; Raoul would have thought that it would be easier to think of something to say, considering how he had spent fifteen years bottling up all the things he wanted to tell the boy. He’d imagined explaining exactly how he had toppled this government, rigged that election, or destroyed another complex. In weaker moments, he’d dreamed of apologies for running away that morning, promises never to leave him again, and whispers about how much he loved the boy and how he would do anything to keep him.

        But now, all those words turn to ash on his tongue. Because Richard is here, but Richard is also _MI6_ , and Raoul is not sure how to reconcile those two things. He still doesn’t understand how either of those things is possible, and he asks, perhaps a bit pointlessly, “So you’re the new quartermaster, are you?”

        “You already know the answer to that,” Richard replies, his voice steady but not quite able to suppress an undercurrent of anger. His fingers twist nervously, as if itching for a keyboard because with a computer, maybe things would make sense again. But there were some realities that even a computer couldn’t explain, and Richard continues, “Why else would you have given me the chance to run?”

        “I didn’t know it was you,” Tiago admits. He hadn’t even considered… hadn’t _allowed_ himself to consider the possibility. “I just knew you were good. Talent like that deserved the chance to walk away, so I gave it to you. I’m just glad you took it.”

        Richard lets out a choked laugh, both despairing and possibly relieved. Relieved because he had honestly believed that Tiago would leave him behind if he’d had a choice? Never. He could never have left, even knowing that if it had been wrong to let the boy close to Tiago, it would be even worse to let the boy anywhere _near_ Raoul. But he is selfish and the thought of having Richard with him for the past fifteen years….

        It wouldn’t have changed anything. It _couldn’t_ change anything. Mother had to pay for what happened, and MI6 had to suffer for being _hers_. Yet somehow the thirst for revenge, a thirst that his entire _life_ had revolved around, is easily ignored as Richard continues, shaking his head, “I should have guessed. You always did like to give people chances. It’s nice to know that some things never change.”

        “You think I haven’t changed?” he asks, wondering if the young man can be so willfully blind. MI6 did have a way of destroying people, but this would be too much. The boy had always been able to see everything so clearly (except when it came to romantic feelings; there, Richard showed an appalling lack of judgment), but now….

        He supposes this disappointment can only be expected. He had spent fifteen years putting the boy on a pedestal, using his memory as the standard by which the world should measure up to. It also served as the standard by which everyone had failed because no one could live up to an ideal like that. Sévérine certainly hadn’t, and like her, Richard would only have let him down as well. The boy would have been dead long before his time because it seems like the only thing Raoul is good at is ruining people.

        “I didn’t say that,” Richard replies carefully. Once again, he is that boy in the warehouse, trying not to say the wrong thing to a person who could utterly destroy him. At least he is able to retain that wariness in light of a threat, even if Raoul is currently locked inside this glass cage (but not for long). “It’s not hard to see that you have changed in many ways, Tiago.”

        Raoul nearly flinches back from the name. Even though he had been demanding Mansfield to say it only minutes ago, hearing it from the young man’s lips is an entirely different story. He doesn’t know how he feels about it, so rather than confront his indecision head on, he asks, “So you saw?”

        Richard’s eyes automatically dart up, no doubt looking at the hidden cameras that are scattered through the room like insects. Of course the quartermaster would know exactly where each and every one of them would be. “It was hard not to.”

        “And yet you still came.”

        “Yes, well, I was never interested in you for your charming good looks,” Richard replies dryly, waving a hand as if to emphasize how absurd a concept that is. “Which is for the better because that dye job is _awful_. You really should fire your stylist.”

        To everyone’s amazement, but especially his own, Raoul _laughs_. He can’t help it, and laughs even harder when Richard looks absolutely startled by the sound. The laugh is probably sickening to hear, accompanied as it is by the hollow clacking of the prosthetic, and it hurts like hell. But it is also the most genuine thing he has done in the last fifteen years. How is it that Richard is able to bring out that little part of him that can almost be deemed human? He’s spent so long being a shell of a person, dedicated to one purpose and one purpose only. Yet all Richard has to do is make a single tart observation and Raoul wants to be on his knees, holding onto the one person who had made him feel like he could be _more_.

        But he can’t, and it’s not just because of the glass separating them. Neither of them are the persons they once were, no matter how they might resemble them or how easily they pick up where they had left off all those years ago. He doesn’t want to acknowledge it though, so he buys himself some time as he finally stands from his crouched position, only to settle back down on the lone bench. “I’m not sure you’re one to talk, Richard. Those pants are not exactly appropriate for someone of your position.”

        “The person wearing a tan jumpsuit is definitely in no position to lecture me,” Richard retorts, the slight curve of his lip betraying his paltry attempts at concealing his amusement. He wonders if the easy banter hurts the young man as much as it hurts him, the cruel reminder of what _could have been_. This was once everything he had wanted, and everything that had been _taken_ from him. As if to emphasize the point, that Richard is no longer his but _hers_ , the young man says, “And it’s Q now.”

        That he cannot concede. “You will always be Richard to me.”

        “You mean I will always be a child to you,” Richard corrects, not quite able to hide his bitterness (if he is even trying to do so). Because Richard has been trying for years to prove himself an adult, as evidenced by his becoming quartermaster at a record pace. But attaining that coveted position was only a byproduct of what the young man had truly wanted, which was _acknowledgment_. Richard had wanted to prove himself capable of making the decisions that fifteen years ago, Tiago had refused to acknowledge because he was too young, still too much of a child. He had done so the only way he knew how, using his skills at MI6, the place where Tiago had proven himself all those years ago.

        Perhaps Raoul should be pleased that Richard would go to such lengths for the sake of a dead man. He isn’t. While he might understand why Richard went to MI6, while he might even forgive it, he cannot approve of it. It’s not just that Richard has inadvertently placed himself between Raoul and his goals, but rather that he’d wanted better for the boy. He hadn’t wanted him to just be another piece for Mansfield to manipulate. But that was exactly what the young man is, and he did it for _Tiago_.

        No, Richard is not the only one who is bitter about the present circumstances, although Raoul is far better at hiding it. Someone should really teach the young man how to hide his emotions, but that someone will not be him. Instead, he simply shrugs and asks, “Is that such a bad thing? You should know by now what horrible creatures we adults are.”

        If he was hoping to make light of their situation, he has clearly failed as those dark red lips tighten in anger. “Is that why you blew up MI6? Exposed those agents? Good people have died because of your actions, Tiago. How do you justify that?”

        “I justify it as I please,” he snaps, not interested in being judged by the one person whose opinion he actually cares for. “You saw what your precious M did to me. What she _made_ me. And you still have to ask? Unless this is your way of asking for a more formal demonstration?”

        Before he knows what he is doing, he is reaching for the prosthetic. It’s not good, to take it out so often, but Richard’s anger is feeding his own and gives him the terrible desire to make the young man recoil at the horrific results of putting one’s faith in MI6. But his fingers still as Richard, pale as he already is, manages to become even more so as the young man desperately looks away, rasping, “No. No, I don’t need to see that again.”

        If it was anyone else, Raoul would not have stopped. He would have ripped out that prosthetic and felt his face cave in just like it did all those years ago. He would have reveled in their disgust even through the agony. But it is not anyone else. It is Richard, who unlike the rest of the world, reacts not with revulsion or even pity at his disfigurement, but _despair_ for what has been lost.

        No one has ever cared enough for him to look at him like that. Tiago’s parents had not cared when he abandoned them, and Mansfield was all too happy to discard him once he displeased her. But Richard… _Richard_ , even after all these years and all the crimes he has committed, mourns for the person he once was, a person that no one else in the world had ever thought twice of until he had forced them to with his brazen attack on MI6.

        That is why he stops, why his anger slowly but surely drains away. But rather than leave him feeling like an empty husk, the way he had felt those few times in the past fifteen years when he could no longer sustain that all-consuming hatred for Mansfield, he feels his own sympathy. If not for the glass and the monster he has become, he would reach out to the young man, brush aside that unruly hair and whisper an apology. An apology for giving Richard hope, however brief, that Tiago had returned to him, a hope that has been brutally shattered by the reality that Raoul is nothing like that person. He cannot do that, but at the very least, he can do _this_.

        “Tell me what happened,” he says quietly.

        At first, Richard doesn’t respond. He continues to look at the ground, like he already knows that there is no point to continuing this conversation. There isn’t, really, yet the young man visibly wills himself to look up at Raoul and reply as directed. “I woke up. You were gone. You shouldn’t have done that,” Richard can’t resist adding that last bit, which makes Raoul want to smile. But that will get them nowhere, and so the young man continues once it is clear that there will be no response. “A few hours later, some men came and forced their way in. They didn’t quite demand that I go with them, but they made it clear that it was in my best interest not to disobey. So I went. I’m still not entirely sure where we went, some sort of commercial warehouse or something. And then we waited.”

        Richard closes his eyes, losing himself in a memory that Raoul can see all too clearly. The boy, confused and probably more than a little terrified at finding himself in a situation disturbingly similar to the one Tiago had freed him from only a few months ago. The MI6 agents, watching him fidget nervously as he struggled to come up with questions only to run out of the courage to ask them. Not that he would have asked the one question he wanted to, the one about whether Tiago knew what was happening. Whether Tiago had sanctioned… no, requested this, giving him away to someone else because he had dared to tell the man that he cared for him.

        Raoul lets out the breath that he did not know he had been holding, and asks, “And then?”

        Richard starts, like he had forgotten that there was someone else there. He suddenly looks very young, as young as Raoul remembers him to be. “And then she came. She told me that the Chinese had taken you, and that you had asked her to protect me.”

        The young man’s eyes widen at the almost feral sound he makes. He should no longer be capable of being surprised by Mother’s manipulations, yet somehow she manages to outdo herself every time. “You believed her?”

        “I didn’t know what to believe,” Richard replies, his voice calm even as he unconsciously checks for an exit. Raoul isn’t insulted by this; the boy never got to see hatred of this level because the boy had always brought out Tiago’s better impulses. But Richard’s influence can only go so far now, and he seems to know it too as he continues, “It didn’t really matter anyway. You were gone, and I was alone. I didn’t really know what else there was to do, but she… she told me that you said I could be an asset, so she offered me a job. I took it. I suppose I thought that if you had been at MI6 for so long, there had to be a reason, and I wanted to honor that.”

        The pretty words can barely be heard over his laughter, which is manic and harsh. He can barely believe it, what he is being told, even though it has to be true. It explains neatly what Richard is doing here, and besides, he would know if the young man was lying. Even now, he would know. Still, the thought of Mansfield telling the boy all those things after she had discounted them as the ranting of a love-struck agent? It is both absurd and utterly unbearable, and to think that he had once thought he could not _hate_ that old woman more.

        “Perhaps I thought incorrectly,” Richard offers hesitantly when Raoul’s laughter finally dies down.

        “Perhaps,” he agrees with the blatant understatement, shaking his head in continued disbelief. “Did you ever wonder about it afterwards?”

        The response is immediate. “All the time.” Long fingers tap nervously at the air, a nervous tic that Raoul is not familiar with. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that there is anything about Richard that he does not already know about. “Officially, you were listed as killed in the line of duty. As you already know, they even put it up on the memorial wall at headquarters, although I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already at work taking it off. Unofficially, the Chinese prison records said that you had died under questioning. Maybe I should have looked more closely but I couldn’t, I just… did you know that for years, I kept waiting for you to come through the door again? I knew I shouldn’t, of course I did, but I still found myself waiting. And now, just as I was finally beginning to accept that you were dead, here you are.”

        “You weren’t entirely incorrect.” To his surprise, the words are gentler than he had expected them to be. He understands, of all people. He himself could never bring himself to look into Richard’s death either, convinced as he was that it was unnecessary. Like Richard, he should have known to make sure (especially when someone as duplicitous as Mother was involved), but the thought of confirmation… he hadn’t needed that. He’d had enough misery to contend with already. “I wished I was dead. More than once, I thought death would be better. That’s why I tried the cyanide pill, except MI6 couldn’t even get that damn thing right.”

        Richard’s laugh is a small, weary thing, and it doesn’t suit him at all. He’d always loved the boy most when full of life, with smiles that made everything brighter. That joy is gone now, and Raoul isn’t entirely sure he’s not partly to blame for that. “You weren’t the only one. They tried to make improvements, but there’s a reason why they’re not standard-issue anymore.”

        “I’m surprised MI6 could even learn from its past mistakes.”

        “Well, we’re all full of surprises,” the young man answers pointedly, but he is not prepared for the unpleasant surprise that is about to come his way.

        “That we are,” Raoul agrees pleasantly, wishing they could delve further into that conversation, but their time is up. “Those cameras. What are they showing now?”

        If Raoul had hoped that keeping his words amiable would be enough to fool Richard from the abrupt change in topic, he is sorely disappointed. The young man immediately tenses, starting to glance around as he replies flatly, “Exactly what is happening. I have nothing to hide.”

        “That makes one of us,” he replies, and before Richard can even think to ask what he means by that, the alarm goes off and all the doors slide open, including his own. It’s obviously not expected, as Richard quickly scrambles backwards to keep from falling onto his face, although Raoul would have made sure to catch him before he had.

        “What’s going on?” Richard demands, although it hardly seems necessary by this point. “Why are the doors opening?”

        “That would be my exit,” Raoul replies apologetically as he gets to his feet, his words barely audible above the blaring alarms. He has no time to waste, not only because the guards are surely on their way, but because he harbors no delusions that this will not be his final chance to ever get this close to Richard again.

        But just as he is about to reach the young man, Richard finally jerks out of his daze and rounds on him, the shock giving way to determination. One pale hand reaches for a weapon that Raoul had not expected to be there, but as becomes quickly apparent, Raoul is far more experienced in disarming people of their guns than Richard is in using one to defend himself. Still, Richard puts up an admirable fight, slipping through his grasp in a way that makes Raoul think it would have been glorious to tumble him into the sheets. Their dance here is not nearly comparable, as Raoul fights first for control of the gun and then Richard himself. All too quickly, he disarms the other man and takes hold of thin wrists, squeezing tight to show that he is not unwilling to snap the fragile bone if necessary. As expected of someone who is so dependent on his hands, Richard automatically stills at the warning, although his frustration is virtually palpable from their close proximity.

        Raoul wants to run his fingers up across those calloused palms, pull them close so he can admire those elegant fingers that itch to claw at his face. The window of opportunity, which was already so tiny, is lost as Thompson and two other guards come barging in. They had certainly taken their time, probably never expecting their security to be this severely compromised, and that will be the death of them.

        He doesn’t need the gun, nor does he need the leverage that he has. But Raoul hasn’t come as far as he has by saying no to happy circumstance, so he quickly slides an arm around Richard’s neck and pulls him into a tight chokehold. The guards hesitate at the sight of the young man scrabbling angrily at his arm, and whether it is because of Richard’s status or the fact that he still looks like a bloody child, it does not matter. The window of opportunity is small here too, but this time he doesn’t let it pass as he quickly fires off the gun. In a matter of seconds, there are three more victims for Mother to not mourn. If there’s one thing he can thank her for, it is this: killing has never been so easy since she taught him how little a life actually meant.

        Richard has apparently not learned that lesson yet. Despite the fact that it is hard to breathe, Richard can’t quite suppress his distress at the sudden addition of three corpses mere feet away. Because like any good quartermaster, his experience with death has been limited to killing from afar or through proxy. Perhaps he blames himself, and Raoul wonders if he should assure the young man that they would have died regardless because Raoul is nothing if not prepared for killing.

        But now is not the time; Richard is no longer a little boy, and Tiago no longer has time for sympathies and reassurances. Raoul barely has time for this – no doubt 007 is dutifully running over – but he cannot help himself as he turns Richard around to face him. He wants to tangle a hand in that wild hair, but settles instead for holding those thin wrists together as he keeps a steady grip on the gun. He still has something he must do, time permitting, so he’ll have to make this quick.

        Richard doesn’t try to move away, not even when the hand holding the gun snakes up to feel Richard’s fluttering pulse. Just like the last time, it is fast and desperate because they both know that Raoul could kill him – could kill them _both_ as Raoul leans his head so that it rests on a bony shoulder, the sensation of his breath against that long, pale neck making Richard shudder.

        He could say those things right now, the things he had wanted to say before Mother had denied him the opportunity, except he lost that right so long ago. He could ask Richard for a kiss, one last favor to a dead man, but a kiss is nowhere near enough to make up for the lifetime they once could… no, _should_ have shared. So he goes back to basics, closing his eyes as he whispers the same question he asked fifteen years ago. “Why should I let you live?”

        The reply is immediate. “Should you?”

        But unlike the last time, the answer isn’t self-depreciating. Richard knows his worth now, has proven it now, without Tiago’s assistance. There is no need to ask what the value of this life is because they both know it is simply incalculable, something that makes Richard unique in all the world.

        It is also a challenge, an assurance that if Raoul lets the quartermaster live, he will regret it. While that may be true, he is still willing to take that risk. He had no intention of killing Richard in that warehouse, and he has no intention of it now.

        Raoul abruptly pushes the quartermaster away, and before Richard can find his balance, the gun is pointed at the space between his eyes. Richard’s expression is flat and empty, but it is nothing compared to Raoul’s, who will do what is necessary because he still has a job to do. He will not permit the young man to get in the way of that, no matter what.

        “Into the cage, if you please.” He indicates the open glass cage.

        Richard is obviously not pleased to do so. “You must be joking. I’m not going in there.”

        “We must learn to disagree then. I won’t have you following me.”

        Because the young man is stubborn, all he gets for is a shake of the head and a not entirely confident, “You won’t shoot me.”

        “Not fatally,” Raoul replies because there are so many ways to cripple a person without killing them. Raoul, educated by Mother herself in so many ways, is well-acquainted in all of them, and he will not hesitate to do what he has to. “Now do stop arguing, _dear boy_ , and get in.”

        There’s something about the not endearment that makes Richard deflate, although it doesn’t stop him from cursing, “ _Bastard_.” At least he doesn’t argue the point any further. He might have, with Tiago, but Raoul is not Tiago. Raoul has not been Tiago for a very, very long time, no matter how much they may resemble each other. So slowly, reluctantly, Richard walks into the cell, shaking ever so slightly as Raoul makes his way to the control panel. Now that his virus has taken over all of MI6, it is easy to punch in the right commands to make the door shut, once again cutting him off from the one person in the world who ever cared for him. Who he ever cared for.

        “You’ll be fine,” he says unnecessarily. “Someone is sure to let you out soon.” That he is a little less certain about; while the video will be indisputable proof that Richard had no idea what Raoul has planned, who knows what the bureaucrats will think once they realize the personal connection that existed. But that is no longer his problem; based on this encounter, Raoul is certain Richard will figure out a way to survive it.

        He starts to turn so that he can walk away, but then Richard has to make things harder by saying, “I loved you once.”

        There is no hesitation in the proclamation, no shying away from the word that an eighteen-year old boy could not bring himself to say. He doesn’t even turn that delightful shade of red that Raoul had once loved to tease him about. In fact, the way Richard says the words is almost business-like in their execution, like he is reciting the weather forecast or the total body count from MI6’s most recent mission-op.

        Yet Raoul cannot suppress the little thrill that runs through him, at the thought that Richard could ever have loved him. He knew it before, of course, because while the boy had struggled with the words the sentiment had been clear, but hearing it out loud… it means everything in the world.

        It means everything, but it changes _nothing_. “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

        “I wasn’t a bloody child, you know, no matter how much you tried to treat me as one.”

        “You don’t know what you are talking about,” he repeats dismissively. “You were young, dependent, and beholden to me. And I took advantage. You didn’t and you still don’t know what you are talking about.”

        “I knew,” Richard replies, his cheeks red not from shyness but unadulterated anger. “Don’t insult me like that. I _knew_.”

        “So you knew,” he replies coldly because finally, _finally_ he will do what he should have done fifteen years ago. Any type of romantic relationship wasn’t right then, and it certainly isn’t right now. Tiago is dead, as is the possibility of anything between them. Richard must accept that for his own good, and this time, Raoul will make dead certain of it. “But what you don’t seem to realize is that the feeling was never mutual. You should know better than to mistake my kindness in not immediately rejecting you as a confession of romantic feelings. You were a child, a misguided, naïve boy, and that was how I saw you. And I see that you have not changed the least since.”

        Richard’s eyes narrow, but before he can retort, Raoul charges forward. Each word, venomous as the last, hurts like a punch to the gut as he says it, but it is nothing compared to the pain that the young man cannot quite suppress as he continues. “And what did you even hope to accomplish, by confessing such a thing? Did you really think it would matter? Did you really think that some past, one-sided passion would be enough to stop me now? Did you honestly believe that _you_ mattered? This is so much bigger than you, _dear boy_ , and you would do well to remember it. You were an amusing diversion, nothing more, and you aren’t even that now.”

        Silence. The quartermaster’s expression is stony, his hands clenched into fists that he almost certainly would like to put through Raoul’s skull right now. But he will never have the opportunity for that, although he can’t help but offer Raoul one more opportunity to ruin him forever. “Then why didn’t you just kill me?”

        “Because you’re not worth the effort,” he replies, and disappears into the underground tunnels.

* * *

        Several hours later, Raoul finds himself in a warehouse.

        Since joining the criminal underworld, Raoul has had to (slightly) revise his calculations about the utility of warehouses as hideouts. They’re still appallingly uncreative and there’s only so much one can do to secure it from prying eyes, but they’re easy to rent and difficult to pinpoint, especially when there are so many of them. He would never rely on one as a base of operations, but for a temporary spot, it will do.

        Currently, he is at his computer, staring at a location tracker. Behind him, his men are getting ready for the final assault, joking amongst themselves as they pack up their weapons. They think it will be easy, and there isn’t really any reason to think otherwise when it’s well-armed men against a single double-o agent past his prime and an old lady. But then, Raoul had never had any reason to think that Richard was anything but a corpse in an unmarked grave, so clearly there is room for a surprise or two along the way.

        It’s his own fault that things had to reach this point, although he knows his men are eager for a chance to draw some blood. He should have buried Bond in the rubble rather than let the train try to do him in. He certainly had enough explosives in that particular corridor to keep the agent down for long enough. But rather than do the safe thing, he had gone for dramatics, and Bond had escaped with Mother in tow. And for what reason? Because he had been angry, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, his final conversation with Richard still playing itself out before his eyes.

        Raoul isn’t even sure what he is angry with, particularly when Richard is the one with the most to complain about. It had been Raoul’s choice, after all, to make sure that things with the young man were broken irreparably, to ensure that Richard would have no desire to come after him. The boy had spent enough time being in thrall to a dead man, and Raoul had done what he could to permit the boy to move _on_ from an impossible dream.

        But sitting here, seeing that Richard’s tracker – easy enough to find now that he knew what to look for, although it’s pathetic how easily he can hack back into MI6 – clearly shows that the young man is still in MI6… he can’t help but feel a slight disappointment. Raoul is an egotistical man, he has never denied that, and a part of him had wanted Richard to come after him. Had wanted Richard to _care_ enough that no matter what Raoul said, he would come.

        He doesn’t. Which is good because Raoul doesn’t need Richard to see this, his final confrontation with the woman who ruined everything about him, but emotions are hard to control. Love most of all.

        Because he does. He does _love_ Richard, and their brief moment together had only confirmed it. He loved the boy, would almost certainly have loved the man he had become (even though he would have destroyed him) because he is still so much the same. Not just in appearance but in personality, in wit, in intelligence, in _life_. It is clearer now than ever before that they could have created such wonders together. More importantly, they could have been so _happy_ together.

        It is not to be, and all because of _her_.

        Remembering that is finally enough to clear his mind of all distractions. He slams the laptop cover down, earning stares and silence as his men quickly turn their attention to him. They must all know he’s mad but nobody makes a move to leave, and he stands to face them.

        “Gentlemen,” he addresses with a wide grin that must resemble a corpse’s. Perhaps he should not be so amused by the prospect of death, but Tiago died long ago, and it is finally time that Raoul joins him. “Come along, now. Scotland awaits.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re hurt.” There is a flicker of that hatred that has kept him alive all these years, hatred that she can make him care for her like that, but all he does is repeat, “You’re hurt.”_
> 
> _His hands try to pull hers away from the wound, causing a short gasp of pain, but before he can look any closer she says quietly, “Not as much as you have been, Rodriguez.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to Isanah and ReadByRain15 for their invaluable beta-work.

        Prepared as he is for surprises, even Raoul could not have predicted the complete chaos his final plans would descend to. Of course he knew that Bond and Mother would not go quietly into the night, but balanced against superior numbers, superior weaponry, superior strategy, superior _everything_ , he thinks he can be forgiven for not expecting quite the level of destruction the two relics have proven themselves capable of.

        Still, there’s nothing that an icy dip in the pond won’t cure, and he strides away from where Bond is drowning. The trek through the moors to the dilapidated chapel is not far, but it feels like a lifetime and is more than enough time for him to indulge in his regrets.

        While he had done everything he could to ensure that Richard will never think fond thoughts of him again, the same cannot be said of himself. In the pandemonium of the assault on Bond’s ancestral home, it had been easy to forget about the young man. But now, with nothing but the glow of fire at his back and the prospect of death before him, Richard is all he can think of.

        His thoughts are largely the same as when he had made his decision to take the cyanide pill, thinking of the life he will never have. It is those small moments that he would mourn most. Lazy kisses and windswept hair, private smiles and quiet moments of just lying in bed, legs tangled as a pale arm reaches out to turn the page of the book they are both reading. Moments where they could simply be, where there were no expectations and no demands. That is what he will regret the most, but unlike Tiago, Raoul knows better. Pausing by the gravestones that mark where Bond’s parents are buried, he can’t help but chuckle. He knows that it would never have worked. Richard would have seen through Tiago eventually, would have realized that the madness which so defines Raoul (and it is madness, he has never shied away from that fact) lurked close to the surface. But even knowing that does nothing to tamper his hatred for the old woman as he climbs up the steps towards the open door, exhaustion dogging his every step.

        Raoul finds Mother leaning quietly against one of the pews when he enters, although she immediately turns to face him. As always, her expression is unreadable as she watches him come close, and he looks away to stare at the ruins of the chapel. Everything about this place is dying, a slow, aimless death that somehow seems worse than the explosion that took out the main manor.

        It is fitting. They will die here, alone. Their deaths will not be mourned. Their lives will not be remembered.

        _It is fitting_.

        “Of course,” he murmurs, staring at the rotting stone. It’s like the stones that lined his cell in China, the ones he used to count in an attempt to take his mind off the pain. “It had to be here. It _had_ to be this way.” He looks at her again, his smile so mad that finally he gets a reaction, even if it’s one of antipathy. “ _Thank you_.”

        To be honest, he barely knows what he is saying now. Whether it is the injuries from the fight, the shock of Richard, the desperation of being so _close_ to finally finishing this, and the fact that he is so, _so_ very tired of living… he doesn’t know. The insanity he has kept at bay with thoughts of revenge is unravelling him because he no longer needs to hold it together. He just needs to finish this, just needs to _finish_ this, and then he can rest.

        Before she can reply, an old man walks in, not even noticing his presence until it is too late. “Don’t,” he warns, not bothering with something as meaningless as aiming. The bullet hits the wall, but it’s more than enough to stop the man. And that’s all he need, all he asks for. He doesn’t care about the old man unless he interferes, and so he asks, “Please. Don’t.”

        He could just shoot the old man, demonstrating that his life is as meaningless to Raoul as Tiago’s was to _her_. What is another death on his conscience, when he will soon be in no position to care about it? But he just wants this over with and there’s not much time to waste, so he ignores the old man and takes slow, stuttering steps towards _her_ , the one at the eye of the storm that she created in him.

        Mother struggles desperately to keep her face calm, but it is a losing battle. He should be taking pleasure from that, but for some reason he can’t. He has her right where he wants her, but suddenly he is so tired from all the hatred, and she looks so small and pathetic for someone who has taken so much away from him.

        He stares at her, trying to remember all the reasons why he has to destroy her. His eyes catch on the wound in her side, bleeding sluggishly, and before he can stop himself he exclaims, “You’re hurt.” There is a flicker of that hatred that has kept him alive all these years, hatred that she can make him care for her like that, but all he does is repeat, “You’re hurt.”

        His hands try to pull hers away from the wound, causing a short gasp of pain, but before he can look any closer she says quietly, “Not as much as you have been, Rodriguez.”

        Raoul doesn’t quite flinch, but he certainly backs off. He should have been prepared for that, after hearing Richard say _that_ name so many times, but she had been so adamant about not saying it that he wasn’t expecting it. He doesn’t quite know how to react now, but he hides his confusion by saying coldly, “So you admit it.”

        “I never denied it.”

        He nearly chokes on his laugh, her lies making it easy to let his heart harden again. “You think you can save yourself now through a few choice words?”

        “We both know it’s too late for that.” At least she can be relied upon to not shy away from the truth. “You spoke to him, I assume?”

        “Yes,” he answers immediately, although he wants nothing more than to choke the answer back. Like a jealous child, he doesn’t want her to know anything about Richard, even though she probably knows the young man better than he does now. Which, of course, is all her fault. “I hope you’re not expecting me to thank you.”

        “Neither of us got into this line of work in the hope of receiving praise.”

        “Speak for yourself.”

        She shakes her head, although the effort required for even that seems to leave her winded. He can tell that she wants to stand up straight, to face him and her fate, but she can’t. She’s forced instead to lean against the pew for support, and it is obvious that she is dismayed by her frail body betraying her like that. “You stole state secrets just to get the recruiting officers to take you seriously. Seventeen years old, but so desperate to join because you wanted to make a difference. You wanted to save everybody, and you were arrogant enough to believe that you could.”

        _It wasn’t arrogance_ , he starts to point out, but stops because he doesn’t have to explain himself to her. Besides, he knows better now, and could give credit where it is due (her, her, _her_ ), but he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at Mother, wondering why she is telling him these things and why he is allowing her to.

        “But it doesn’t work that way. In our line of work, everything has a cost.” Mother sighs, but she has the decency not to look away from him, not once, as she continues, “You had a point, Rodriguez. We should be protecting the innocent, each and every one of them. But what you could never see, what you could never _accept_ , is that there is a price for that. Sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s information, sometimes it’s our humanity. But in this case, you were that price. I had to give the Chinese someone, and I wanted it to be him. Not you. I would have given him to them because the boy was meaningless, compared to you. But you made yourself clear, and you were right; he was the one we were supposed to be protecting. So I gave you to the Chinese. That was how I saved him.”

        His mouth is dry, and the words barely audible as he says, “You think that changes anything? You should have saved us both.”

        “I couldn’t.”

        “You could have if you tried!” he shouts, unable to accept her claims, her _lies_ , her… no, she gave him up because he _defied_ her, made her look the fool by hiding Richard under her nose for all those months. She didn’t care about the boy, she said it _herself_ , and Mother was always good at calculations. It wouldn’t have mattered what he wanted because she would have found more use for him than the boy, so there was no way she would have made the trade.

        Except she hadn’t given them Richard. She’d only given them Tiago. Richard had survived when they both could have died, but it doesn’t make any _sense_. Mother had no reason to save the boy except… except what, because he had wanted Richard to live? Why would the old bitch care about what _he_ wanted? Why was she even trying to convince him of such an obvious lie?

        “I did try.” Her words cut through his anguish but do nothing to assuage them. She only makes it worse as she confuses him with her falsehoods, continuing, “I _couldn’t_. You don’t think I would have if I could? I did my best with what I had. I could only save one of you, and I thought that you wanted-”

        He rounds on her, cutting off her platitudes by demanding angrily, “So this was my fault then? The fact that the Chinese tortured me for five months? Are you trying to tell me that that was my own doing?!”

        She doesn’t answer him because she cannot. Nobody can because what she is saying isn’t _enough_ , it’s not enough to make what she did _right_.

        _But what if it was true?_ her voice whispers insidiously to him. _Would you have preferred that it was the boy who suffered instead of you?_ Those long five months of torture and being systematically ground down, to the point that he was willing to use that cyanide capsule, except Richard wouldn’t have had an escape route like that. He’d have been dependent on the Chinese showing him mercy by killing him, or more likely making a mistake and taking things a step too far. Would he have wanted that for the boy, the person he _loved_ , even if the cost was his own sanity?

        All that assumes that there truly was an either-or situation. Either it was him, or it was Richard. That is not the case. She could have found another way, he’s sure of it. She just didn’t want to because they weren’t worth her time to save. Not Tiago because he wouldn’t blindly obey her orders, not Richard because he had no value to her. They were more useful to her as leverage than as _people_ , and he cannot let her pretend otherwise. He cannot let her pretend that she was doing him a goddamn _favor_.

        There’s a whisper of movement behind him, and he nearly cries with relief at the distraction from her words even as the exasperation in him rises because he wants to be left _alone_. He needs everyone to leave him alone so he can do what he came here to do, to finish this for good. He turns, aiming the gun away from the useless old man to point at Bond, only to find… “You.”

        “Me,” Richard confirms softly. The harsh artificial light of MI6 had done nothing for his complexion, but here, where the only light is the fire of the burning building filtering through the dusty windows, the young man looks otherworldly. He also does not look bothered by the gun pointed at him, even though Raoul is sick enough of this world to consider pulling the damn trigger if that is what it will take. “How did you know I was here?”

        “Training. It never quite goes away,” he replies a bit numbly, not even sure why he is answering. He wouldn’t even be certain that Richard is here (because what _reason_ would he have to be here?) if not for Mansfield and the old man staring as well. “How are you even here, _dear boy_? Shouldn’t you still be in a cage?” Still safely locked away, out of sight and out of mind, not here. Not _here_ , where only death remains for them all.

        “Please,” Richard says, and despite the gravity of their situation, the young man is clearly insulted that Raoul even has to ask. “I would be a poor quartermaster if I couldn’t open that cell from the inside.”

        He shouldn’t respond, except he does, prolonging a conversation that will mean nothing to anyone in a matter of minutes. “And how did you find me?”

        “The same way you did. I followed 007,” Richard says with a shrug. “The trail of breadcrumbs he left was easy enough to follow, if you knew where to look. Granted, it really was only meant for you, but-”

        “What do you want, _Q_?” he cuts off harshly. The title is even more an insult than _dear boy_ was meant to be, and that is not lost on Richard given the pout of his lips. But annoyed as he might be, it’s not enough to obscure the desperate _concern_ in those bright green eyes, and that may be more deadly than all the fire bombs Bond can throw in his direction.

        It is truly unbelievable. After everything he has done, everything he has said, what more must he do to convince Richard that being here is _wrong_? It is like he insists on being the child that he claims not to be, and it will get him killed one day, possibly this very day. Raoul starts to turn away in disgust, eager to prove to Richard once and for all that he is utterly _meaningless_. But because that is and always will be a lie, he finds his attention caught by the blood soaking through the sleeve of the dark parka that the young man is wearing.

        Richard follows his gaze before letting out a rueful laugh as he tries to tuck his arm out of view as best he can. “I knew you would compromise my tracker, so I took it out. I don’t think I did a very good job with it though.”

        Judging from the amount of blood, that was a severe understatement. What did Richard do, remove the tracker with a screwdriver? Actually, he doesn’t want to know (he doesn’t want to _care_ ), but automatically he finds himself saying like a concerned parent, “You need to get that looked at. It’s going to get infected if you don’t treat it.”

        “Assuming I don’t die from frostbite first,” the young man mumbles, shivering delicately into his coat as if for emphasis. At Raoul’s incredulous look at his utter lack of preparation, Richard continues a bit defensively, “I was rather in a hurry.”

        That much is clear. What is also clear is this: “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

        “And you should know better. You really didn’t think I would follow you, just because of what you said? I know what you were trying to do, Tiago. You were trying to push me away, just like you did all those years ago.”

        Raoul nearly wants to scream in frustration; is he really being forced to have this conversation _now_? When he is so close to ending it? Richard is stubborn, yes, but this is beyond absurd, that the young man thinks _now_ is the time to be whining about Tiago’s attempts to protect him. It’s like Richard didn’t notice the house burning to ashes not so far away, or the gun aimed at him, or Mother bleeding out like she so rightfully deserves. It's like the only thing Richard sees is _him_ , and he cannot stand it. “Then why can’t you just _listen_ for once, if you think you’re so clever? Why couldn’t you just _listen_?!”

        “Tiago….”

        “ _No_. No, you do not get to use that name any longer. Tiago is _dead_ ,” he yells, unable to stand how Richard looks at him like he still matters. “Tiago is dead, and you should get that through your head, dear boy. _She_ -” he swings the gun back at Mother, who doesn’t flinch back from his rage or her impending death, “-made damn sure of that.”

        “Because of me.”

        “No,” he denies vehemently, before he can think better of it. “ _No_.”

        “Yes,” Richard replies with the calmness of someone who knows he is right. The calm doesn’t last long though as Richard shivers again, but it’s not from the cold. Not this time. “She gave you to them to save me. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, and I’m sorry-”

        “Don’t.” The single word is finally enough to stop Richard from saying anything else, but Raoul can take no satisfaction from that. The young man might not be saying anything, but the _guilt_ seems to emanate from him and… no, that isn’t right. This was not Richard’s doing, it never was. It might not matter because they might all be dead before long, but he will not have Richard thinking that this was his fault. Tiago had chosen to let the boy live, and he had never regretted it, not once. Even Raoul, for all his cruelty, would not have wanted the boy to endure what Tiago had in those five months of hell because Richard had always deserved better than that. So he finds himself pleading again, except this time he actually means it. “Please. _Don’t_.”

        Richard swallows hard, his eyes darting nervously between Raoul and Mother and the old man. It’s like he’s looking for answers from them, a sign of what he should do. When they offer him nothing, he focuses his attention back on Raoul. “It’s over, Tiago. She’s dying.” Raoul blinks, looking quickly over at Mansfield, who continues to watch him steadily. But he can see now that if he thought there was too much blood from Richard’s self-inflicted injury, Mother’s wound far surpasses it. There is blood, too much of it; they are in the middle of nowhere, and no one will get to her in time. She must already know it, and her acceptance feels like a judgment weighing down on him, to the point that he almost misses the quiet plea. “You don’t have to do this anymore.”

        “Yes, I do,” he replies without looking away from her. “This doesn’t just end with her death, Richard.”

        The responsive question is pained. “Do you really want to die that badly?”

        _No._ The passion of the thought nearly takes him off-guard because that’s not right. He always knew it was going to end like this, with him and Mother dead and gone, likely taking half the world with him if he had to. But suddenly, he isn’t so sure. He’d been so sure of Richard’s death, but that turned out not to be true. He’d been so sure that Richard would finally walk away from him, but that also turned out not to be true. And he’d always been so sure that there was nothing left for him once he accomplished his goal of taking down Mansfield, but now….

        He can’t think like this. He can’t let one person instill so much doubt within him because if he did, what had been the point of these past fifteen years? All those days spent hating and scheming and driving himself closer and closer to the edge, when he could have been wrapped around the boy, growing old together and being _happy_. Those fifteen years had to matter somehow, and if he stops now, they never will.

        “I’m already dead,” he murmurs, leaning closer to Mother. She at least understands, having been so instrumental in his demise. Richard might be too stubborn to accept the truth, but she knows it at least. She will not deny him this, no matter how spiteful she is. Before he can stop himself, he’s grabbing for her hand, wrapping it around the trigger of the gun, and he’s pleading, _pleading_ for her to end it because he can’t. He can’t, not with Richard watching and not with Richard begging for him to stop, not with Richard offering him a chance to be something more which is cruel because he cannot take it, not anymore, and-

        He hears a soft cry but doesn’t let it distract him. But more distracting is the sudden agonizing _pain_ in his lower back, the feel of a blade sinking into his flesh enough to drop both the gun and Mother. One hand gropes automatically for what feels like the handle of a knife, but he doesn’t have the strength to pull it out even as he turns to find Bond, soaking wet from his dip in the pond. The loyal dog has pushed Richard behind him, and the young man stares at Raoul in horror as he drops to his knees.

        “ _Tiago_ ,” Richard says desperately, pushing past Bond. For a moment, the agent looks ready to literally throw him back, but he ultimately allows Richard to get past and put himself between them. If it wasn’t for the fact that he has so recently been impaled, Raoul would die from laughter at the feeling that he is suddenly trapped in a bizarre soap opera.

        He supposes that dying is still an option.

        Bond’s expression doesn’t change as Richard stares helplessly at Raoul, his hands hovering but stopping just short of touching him because he doesn’t know what to do about the knife sticking out of his back. Medical training is apparently one of the few things that the young man has not learned over the years, and 007 is not about to offer any assistance. Instead, the man asks tightly, “So that is how you ended up in that cell, Q.”

        Richard doesn’t respond, beyond a stiffening of the shoulders. And oh, Raoul can picture it so easily: 007, gun in one hand, making his way to the cage only to find three dead guards and Richard trapped behind the glass. They would have looked at each other for a moment, a flicker of time, before Mr. Bond would have turned away and headed straight into the tunnels, in pursuit of the threat. It’s not that Bond didn’t care about the quartermaster, but after weighing the benefits of following Raoul versus letting Q out, it was an easy call. Someone would let the quartermaster out eventually, so Bond had gone after Raoul. It was simply the kind of agent Bond was, the kind who put the mission ahead of the individuals who were affected, the kind Tiago had always sought to distinguish himself from because he had believed that the individuals had mattered.

        Well, up until he had realized how little he himself was valued.

        But while Mother might not care for him, Richard still does. Even now, after all the reasons not to (and there are many, and each reason alone more than enough to dictate that the young man stay as far away from him as possible), Richard still cares. And although there is a part of him that despairs for Richard’s lack of common sense, and an even greater part of him that wants nothing more than to close his eyes and let death sweep him away, he finds himself falling forward into Richard’s arms. The young man isn’t quite strong enough to support him but he does his best, and Raoul really cannot ask for even that.

        “Were you working with him?” Bond asks, and while his voice seems controlled, there’s an undercurrent of anger that Raoul is familiar with. It’s an anger he nearly gives into himself as he realizes that the question is not just a matter of professional betrayal, but a betrayal of a more _intimate_ nature.

        “No,” Richard replies softly. There is no defensiveness in the words because he knows the video will back him up, and in any case, he sounds too tired to challenge Bond’s assumptions beyond relying on the simple truth. “I didn’t even know he was alive until M told me a few days ago, when she realized it might be him.”

        There is a rattling pant of one who is close to death, but determined to get a word in regardless. “That is correct, 007,” _she_ confirms, although why she would waste her last breaths on that, Raoul has no idea.

        Silence. Raoul struggles to open his eyes, to see for himself what is happening, but his body has simply given up. He hates this, the helplessness; it reminds him too much of entire days spent in pitch black cells where he had no one to talk to but himself. Except this is worse because the prison is himself and there are people with him, making decisions about him without his leave. This shouldn’t be happening because he should be _dead_ now, but somehow both he and Mansfield are breathing. The only upside is that none of their decisions might matter anyway, since the pain in his back is truly blinding.

        But not so blinding that he misses the next statement, so quietly spoken that he wonders if he simply imagined it. “I’m taking him with me, James.”

        Even with so little strength left, he jerks slightly, both at the name and the sentiment. There’s a little curl of jealousy, which is easily beaten back by his shock at what Richard is saying. Luckily, he is not the only one who cannot believe what is being said, as Bond says, “You can’t be serious, Q. He doesn’t deserve to live.”

        “I don’t,” he wheezes, although he nearly refrains because the thought of agreeing with Bond is rather galling. It’s such a petty thing to be worrying about when dying, but Raoul _is_ petty and death seems to be a fine time to be indulging in such inanities. There won’t be much time for it later, it seems.

        “Shut up,” Richard snarls, eager to turn his attention away from Bond, no doubt. The young man is beyond stressed, trying to defend Raoul when everything he has done is indefensible in 007’s eyes. It doesn’t matter what Mansfield did; turning against her is unforgivable, even if anyone in his position would have done the same thing. Well, everyone except Bond, at least. “You don’t get a vote in this matter.”

        “Are we voting?” Bond demands, somehow managing to say the things that Raoul wants to say but cannot. He resents the man deeply for that, even as he wants to thank him for trying to talk some sense into Richard. “He’s a traitor, a murderer, and a liability. Whether or not he lives is not up for discussion.”

        _Liability_. That was what Mansfield had said about Richard, all those years ago. Such an innocuous word, used to justify destroying a person completely and utterly. But Bond is right; Raoul is a liability, and he has no idea how Richard could possibly think he has a chance of winning this debate. Only a child would continue to push the issue like this, but Raoul continues to grossly underestimate Richard’s determination.

        “You’re right, this isn’t up for discussion,” Richard is saying, like he’s in control of this situation when nothing could be further from the truth. There it is again, the authority that comes from being _quartermaster_ , but the problem is that Richard isn’t being Q right now. He’s being emotional, trying to cling to a past that no longer exists, and for what? For Tiago? Tiago is dead, and so is Raoul, and he doesn’t understand why the young man is willing to throw everything away. He may feel a little bit flattered by it, but given how the gesture is likely to get Richard killed or _worse_ , thrown in a deep cell for the rest of his life, he just wants Richard to _stop_. To stop, before this can get any worse for him, before Bond takes the knife out from his gut to plunge into the young man’s heart. “I’m taking him.”

        “And when he betrays you?”

        The response is swift and deadly serious. “Then I’ll kill him myself.” And somehow, Raoul doesn’t doubt it. He doesn’t doubt that Richard would do exactly that, if that was what was necessary. Richard may still love him, may be willing to commit such grave acts of stupidity to keep him, but he will not be permitted to become a threat again.

        Bond is not so credulous though, and for good reason. “You are willing to harbor a traitor, and yet you want us to believe that you would stop him when it comes down to it? If that’s the case, you let him die here now, Q. He’s not going to change just because you want him to, he’s not-”

        Because he is so close to the young man, Raoul can feel Richard shaking his head, trying to deny the truth in what Bond is saying. Raoul wants to tell him that he needs to accept it, that as much as he hates it, Bond is _right_. Besides, it is better this way. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want the chance that Richard is trying to get for him. He wants this to end, has wanted it to end for all these years, and that hasn’t changed just because it turned out that the boy had lived. That Mansfield had saved him. That he suffered in order to let Richard _live_.

        And he would do it again, if he could. He would do whatever it took to keep Richard safe because Richard is worth more than he would ever be, and surely everyone must see that now. Even Bond, who doesn’t understand why the young man would go to such lengths to protect a traitor, is trying to give him a chance to save himself. It is only Richard who cannot see it, so for his sake, Raoul wills his body to shut down a little bit faster, to die all the more quickly so that Richard will have no reason to continue this path of destruction. He cannot be the end of the young man, not after all this time. He suddenly finds himself wishing desperately for another cyanide pill, one that will do its job this time because he needs-

        “Bond.” She speaks barely in a whisper now, but it’s enough to silence the angry conversation above him. It’s even enough to stop the debate inside him as well because it’s _her_ , and he no longer knows what to think of her. He hates her so much for what she did to Tiago, but if she saved Richard, if she’s the only reason why the boy still breathes, then isn’t is justified?

        Raoul doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if she was telling the truth. What he does know is that she might be the only one who can save Richard now, and so he tries to ask her. He hates her so much but as all-encompassing as his hatred is, he hates her less than he wants Richard to _live_. So he tries to ask her to save the boy who will not listen to him, to save him where he has failed once again. He tries so hard, but of course now is when his body chooses to forsake him, and he wants to cry out in despair.

        Mansfield is saying something, sealing Richard’s fate no doubt, but he cannot hear it any longer as finally, finally, he closes his eyes, and is forced to let everything go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here I find myself apologizing profusely because unfortunately we are looking at a two (possibly three) week break. I was hoping to avoid any delays, but I’ve found myself with a major block for the last two chapters. So again, my sincerest apologies for the delay (especially at this point of the story), but I hope to be back in a few weeks with the rest of the story.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You’re a fool, Richard. Pretty and clever, but just as much a fool as you were fifteen years ago. You had goals, ambitions, a life, and now what are you? You’re nothing but a nursemaid, taking care of a broken man who doesn’t want to live. Is this really worth giving up everything you’ve accomplished, everything you could have been?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize profusely for the long delay in the update (I sort of laugh-sob every time I see my end notes for the previous chapter… if only it had taken me two to three weeks to finish these last few chapters). Unfortunately, it took me a long while to get it right, but I hope the chapters are worth the wait.
> 
> Many, many thanks to fishwrites for patiently enduring draft after draft, and for helping me figure out how to write these last few chapters. And much thanks to Isanah, for her wonderful beta-work.
> 
> **Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts.**

        For fifteen long years, Raoul Silva has dreamed of dying.

        It is to be expected, considering how much of his existence is defined by the act of dying. Not death itself, although there has certainly been enough of that, between the people that Tiago killed in the name of Queen and country and those that stood between Raoul and Mother. But dying is a distinct and wholly separate thing, a process rather than an end.

        Of the dying that he dreams of, the one he dreams the least of is Tiago’s. It’s less a mercy and more unnecessary, as he does not need to be asleep to remember in vivid detail the cyanide burning him from the inside out. He gets that reminder every time he looks in the mirror to pry the prosthetic out, unable to look away as his face disintegrates. He is so familiar with his failed suicide that it is almost boring to watch it happen again and again and _again_ , so what is the point of wasting his dreams on that?

        No, his slumber is reserved for the horrors of the unknown. Raoul might have made a concerted effort not to think about Richard during those years, but his subconscious lacked the same resolve. How many nights had he spent dreaming of how the boy had died, his ribs shattering from one too many kicks, his lungs giving out from breathing in water for a moment too long, his thin frame arching from the electricity they pumped into him at too high a voltage? So many different scenarios, each playing before him in increasingly graphic detail, and he had no idea which was true. He knows now that none of them are, but that knowledge comes too late and will never erase the hundreds – no, _thousands_ – of nights he spent watching the boy die.

        But for every night that Richard perishes, Mother suffers tenfold. Like the boy’s, her deaths are varied but equally cruel (if unsatisfying). Most common is when he pushes the same cyanide pill that failed to kill him down her throat. Sometimes he uses his fingers and sometimes his own mouth, the pill clenched between his teeth as he passed his poison onto her. It was never about sex – he has no such interest in her – but the intimacy of dying from the same blow. She had signed her own death warrant when she gave him up, and he wanted to make sure she paid in full.

        But mostly he dreams of Raoul Silva putting a bullet through his mouth. Sometimes it would be done in triumph, standing over Mother’s still warm corpse. Sometimes it would be done in despair, knowing that the bitch would always be one step too far for him to reach. Sometimes it would be done just because; after all, since when does anything need a _reason_ to happen? The effect is the same every time; he would feel the gunshot ripping through the prosthetic, killing him in the same place that the cyanide was supposed to but far more effective and far more swift.

        Except it’s never that swift because he always wakes up. He wakes up, goes through his day and then he goes to bed, where he dreams and starts the entire cycle all over again. It is happening even now, except Raoul dreams about all this dying together in a frenetic, insane swirl. He cannot make any sense of it, yet it is all so clear, each act of dying shredding what little is left of his soul. From the day Tiago had tried to kill himself, it feels like he’s been trapped in this process of dying, and sometimes he thinks that it would be better if it was true, that dying in your dreams meant you died in real life. Instead, it is with both astonishment and dismay that he finds himself waking up each day, and at no time has the despair been more present than when he opens his eyes now.

        No wonder he is screaming.

* * *

        “Tiago. Tiago, listen to me.”

        The words are calm but fill him with dread, yet still his eyes practically roll in their sockets in their haste to find Richard – Richard, _Richard_ , of course it is _Richard_ – next to him. Who else would be stupid enough to insist on calling him by a dead man’s name? More importantly, who else would be stupid enough to make him _live_? He cannot help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, except it comes out more as a choked, rattling gasp, before he goes right back to screaming.

        Raoul doesn’t even know what is making him react like this. It could be the pain because no matter how much of it he has endured before (and there has been plenty), it’s not something anyone can get completely used to. It could be the fact that Richard is here, wherever the hell _here_ is, and that is a terrifying thought because Raoul is here too. Or it could just be because he’s so completely _broken_ now that all he can do is scream, his own special way of raging against this world that wants as little to do with him as he does with it.

        Unfortunately for them all, Richard is not the world, because even now the idiot is trying to talk him through this, saying over and over again, “Tiago. Tiago, you have to listen. You have to calm down. Everything is going to be fine.”

        Everything is going to be fine. _Everything is going to be fine?_ Surely Richard cannot be that naïve (although he has shown a decided lack of common sense so far), for it seems like he is anything but fine judging from the sheer terror on the young man’s face. It makes Richard look like the boy again, that stupid, maddening _boy_ whom both Tiago and Raoul would have given anything to keep safe.

        It is that exact sentiment that convinces Raoul that this is wrong. It hardly matters that he is not sure what is happening, but he knows enough to understand that it is _wrong_.

        He jerks when a hand rests on his shoulder. It’s been years since anyone has touched him without an intent to harm (years since the boy had taken his hand at Victoria Peak, and he very nearly weeps at the memory), and on instinct he pulls away. He doesn’t have the strength to get very far, but Richard lets him go, finally understanding his primary role in Raoul’s suffering. But that doesn’t stop Richard from saying again, as if hoping to make it true, “ _You_ are going to be fine.”

        Apparently Raoul has a very different definition of “fine” than Richard does, but he’s in no position to point that out. He does stop screaming at least, mostly due to the lack of strength to go on even though he wants to, between the pain and the confusion and why is he still _alive_? Instead, he settles for falling back onto the bed, his spine a special agony from being arched upwards for too many minutes. His chest burns with each heaving breath, but finally he is able to focus properly on Richard.

        The young man looks even paler than before, his eyes wide and hair a disheveled mess that makes him look younger than Raoul has ever known him. His clothes hang off his thin frame but cannot disguise an ugly wound on his arm, and vaguely Raoul remembers some talk about a tracker being removed. The thought of how much blood Richard would have lost from such a deed is sickening, even though he knows that Richard’s injury is nothing compared to his. But then his life is nothing compared to Richard’s, so he rather thinks it balances out.

        He must look a sight, as Richard is clearly frightened by him. But having so many years under Mother’s tutelage has served him well as he is clearly on his way to being an excellent liar. The young man’s words are so patently untrue as to be laughable, yet the tone is soothing and somehow able to cut through Raoul’s animalistic panic to pacify him. But this too, is its own source of despair, for how many times must the quartermaster have done this, calming an agent who was under fire with assurances that help was on the way? How many times had the quartermaster sent someone to their death with empty promises that their sacrifice would be worth it? Richard is so good at this, so good at making people feel things that they should not, and the thought of what the boy has become makes him wonder all over again what the _point_ of all of this is.

        “Raoul.”

        Dead silence. He cannot even hear the sound of his own wretched breathing. It’s as if everything else in the world has disappeared so that only Richard is left, but how much of the boy is left? What could be left after Mother has had him for so long, molding him into the perfect quartermaster? Yet something must be left because otherwise he wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be staring at the only person he cared for and wondering why it hurts so much to be called by his own name. It sounds so terrible, like Richard’s acknowledgment is the most undisputable evidence that Raoul Silva ever _existed_.

        The young man takes in a deep breath, trying to settle himself. His back straightens, and it takes him some time but he finally manages to hide the fear away – most of it, anyway – before he says, “Raoul Silva is dead.”

        The words are harsh, almost angry. Raoul has no idea what Richard is getting angry about. He’s not the one who is being forced to live when he does not want to. He’s not the one who is at MI6’s mercy, even though he has dedicated fifteen long years to achieving the exact _opposite_ result. His memories of what happened the last time he was awake are still somewhat hazy, but he is certain that he had wanted to die. It’s something he’s been wanting for quite a long time, after all.

        Now Richard is apparently claiming that he has succeeded, but it doesn’t feel that way. He is still in pain, still breathing, still all too aware of his surroundings. It’s so confusing, and in desperation he tries to ask the young man what on earth he is saying, but nothing comes out but that choked gasp that could be laughter or weeping.

        Luckily, Richard seems to sense that they will be here a long time if he has to wait for Raoul to speak coherent words, so he continues, “MI6 will confirm that the terrorist known as Raoul Silva died in Skyfall Manor, due to a fatal knife wound to his back. Agent James Bond, code name 007, was responsible for delivering the killing blow, and-”

        As he continues to speak, all Raoul can do is stare at him with a fascination bordering on revulsion. The words are spoken so clinically, so very much like MI6’s quartermaster, and the hatred that was the only thing sustaining him abruptly bubbles up to the surface, giving him strength. Every word sounds like Richard is passing judgment on him, and who is Richard to condemn him when the boy has become one of _them_?

        In that moment, he hates Richard too. Not Q, not the quartermaster, he’s always hated him, but _Richard_ himself. He doesn’t even bother to understand the reasons because such unadulterated loathing requires no reasons. Now is not the time to worry about the cause but the effect, as Raoul suddenly wants nothing more than to drag the young man down and _hurt_ him. Wants to hurt him as badly as Raoul has been hurt, to show him what monsters they have both become. Because that is what life has done to them, that is what _she_ has done to both of them, and the compulsion to destroy to make up for his own losses is near-overwhelming.

        Near. Even through his increasing bloodlust, he knows that whatever he does, Richard will let him. The young man may be playing the part of quartermaster now, but it is still _Richard_. Despite his rage, he cannot help but notice all those little things that are the same as the boy, the way his eyes dart to and fro, the nervous fidget of his hands, the way those dark red lips have been so worried by teeth that it will not take much for them to split apart and bleed. They’re all signs that the young man’s seeming anger at the moment is really just a front for how desperately worried he is for Raoul, and honestly this concern is rather _pathetic_. It makes him want to hurt Richard even more, but now there is a part of him that resists because as much as he may think he hates the young man, he still loves him too much.

        The conflict between the two is feeding his rising hysteria, which does nothing to ease the stabbing pain in his back and the pounding in his brain. It’s so hard to think that once again he finds himself wishing that the cyanide had done its job, or that 007 had thrown that knife with better accuracy. Both have failed, leaving him in this crippled, half-dead state, and who will be the one to suffer for it? Richard. Always Richard.

        Abruptly he realizes that there is a beeping sound, becoming more and more frantic as it struggles to keep up with his heartbeat. Involuntarily he can feel his muscles seizing with such rapidity that it is becoming impossible to breathe. Mentally, he’s not panicked at the thought of dying – even now, he welcomes it – but his body resists the pull of death by straining as much as possible for life and god, _god_ , it hurts. Dying is never easy, no matter how many times he tries it, and although he thought he lacked the strength, he opens his mouth to start screaming again.

        His hysteria is matched only by Richard’s own panic. He’s no longer able to keep up the pretense of anger or calm, desperate as he is to keep Raoul alive. But doesn’t he understand by now that it is only prolonging his suffering? Doesn’t he _care_ that Raoul just wants to complete the process of dying that he has been undergoing for fifteen long years? Maybe Richard thinks he is being kind, but this is beyond cruel now, as the chaos in his mind is matched only by the feeling of his body rebelling. He’s pretty sure he’s pissed himself by this point too, but it barely matters because he’s lost control over everything – his mind, his body, his _life_. He can’t think except then he can, and he’s so goddamn gone that he has no idea how he can still exist at all.

        He flinches again when a hand reaches down to stroke his hair. He wants to ( _has_ to) escape it but he can’t even do that. Instead, he’s reduced to making a soft, whimpering sound that he can barely identify. It’s nearly enough to block out the soothing sound that Richard is making as he tries to offer false comfort. It shouldn’t work, seeing how the last time someone touched his hair, it was to grab it by the roots and drag him from his cell because he was too weak to move on his own. The last time someone touched his hair, it had glistened with fresh blood that barely showed through his dark roots.

        But despite the harsh memories, he can feel his heartbeat slowing down, his muscles relaxing involuntarily. Not in death (unfortunately), but into an incomprehensible calmness as Richard continues to stroke his hair. Perhaps it is because the touch is gentle, perhaps it is because it is so hesitant, as if even Richard is uncertain this is a good idea. At least that makes two of them, although it’s hard to appreciate it right now. Still, he cannot help but quiet as thin fingers caress his hair gently, even though he knows that this is wrong too. It is just like Richard to inspire so many conflicting feelings in him. It is just like him.

        “You should sleep,” Richard says softly, and Raoul can only watch in silence as one hand moves to the IV drip that is still in his arm. How he did not pull it out in his struggles, he has no idea, but it means that he can do nothing as the drugs are pumped into him. He’s so weak that it takes almost no time at all for the painkillers to drag him back into the dreams, only lasting long enough to hear Richard promise, “We will talk about this later.”

        Raoul doesn’t know if he wants to sleep _or_ talk about it later. He’s not given a choice on either point.

* * *

        The next time Raoul wakes up, he is alone.

        He lays there for some time, unable to do anything but breathe. In and out, in and out, each hateful breath prolonging his misery just that much longer.

        Physically, he has to admit that he feels better than before (not that difficult, when the bar was set so low). There is still a sharp pain in his back, and his stomach feels empty to the point of nausea, but at least it no longer feels like he is on the brink of death. Some might say it’s not much of an improvement, being three steps removed from the edge, but it is a world of difference compared to before.

        Mentally, he feels completely empty. Everything is gone. The confusion, the anxiety, and even the rage – they’ve all disappeared, leaving nothing but apathy in their wake. It’s enough to make him want to close his eyes and drift back to sleep, but somehow he is able to lift his head slightly so that he can take in his surroundings.

        Despite the soft beeping of the medical equipment he is hooked up to, he is not in a hospital ward. That is understandable, considering what he has done. What is less understandable is why he is not in a cell. In the place of cement blocks are walls painted a light shade of mint green, and rather than glaring at security cameras in every corner of the room, he is staring at an open window. There’s a cool breeze coming through it, causing the drapes to flutter quite prettily. On the low set of drawers under it, there is even a vase of freshly cut flowers. Overall, it is the perfect image of domesticity, and once again, he wonders if he has lost his mind.

        Raoul swallows, trying to calm himself by concentrating on what he can assess from his current situation. It seems clear that MI6 is not involved, as he doubts they would set him up in so kind an accommodation after what he has exposed them as. This has to be Richard’s doing, although how Richard could have managed this is completely beyond him.

        What is also clear is that if MI6 is not involved, then surely he must have failed. Perhaps MI6 could be convinced to release him into the quartermaster’s custody, as what is reputation to them when they have none to begin with? But if he had succeeded in killing Mother, there was no conceivable way the valiant Mr. Bond would ever let him live, let alone permit him to be spirited away. 007 is not known for being merciful, a sentiment that Raoul is starting to agree with if his life up to this point is anything to judge by.

        The thought of his failure leaves him feeling numb. A distant part of him wants to rage at this, at being so close and yet still _failing_ , but even that anger is nothing compared to the dread he feels. Dread that she might have proof to support her lies, proof that the convictions on which he had built his entire life were a fantasy. He’d already had so many doubts as a result of discovering that the boy had not died as he supposed, and the thought of any more makes him feel almost sick. Avenging Richard, exposing MI6 and Mansfield, proving that he was _right_ … if all of that had been based on a mistaken assumption, then what had he spent the last fifteen years of his life _doing_?

        _But it wasn’t a mistake_ , he tells himself. Richard is alive, but only because Mother saw use for him. MI6 and Mansfield might still be standing, but at what cost? Their lies have been exposed, and surely that must count for something? Perhaps they had done some good, but it was always inadvertent and self-serving. No, it wasn’t wrong. _He_ wasn’t wrong.

        He can’t be wrong.

        It would have been easier if he was dead. There is not much left in this world that he can be certain of, but he is of that. Doubts do not mean much to corpses, and he would make a fine one. It would probably be better than whatever MI6 has in store for him because even if Richard is the one in charge, no doubt they would not be permitted to stray far. Mansfield does everything for a reason, so why is she letting him live now?

        He does not particularly want to find out. He starts to look around, wondering if he has the strength to rip the cords out. He’s not sure it would be enough to kill him at this point, so he may have to go further. Perhaps he could re-open the wound on his back and bleed out before Richard comes back. It would hurt, and no doubt leave an awful mess for the young man to clean up, but no more than living would.

        Yet Raoul doesn’t even lift an arm to act. He could blame his lack of strength, but he knows that it is for lack of will. Because just as he was certain that Richard would have let him hurt him, he is certain that he cannot hurt the boy (what’s left of him). It is odd, seeing how he’s long since ceased caring about the expectations of others, but the thought of disappointing Richard again is… no. He cannot. Even though he knows that he should not care about how the young man feels, he cannot forget the look on Richard’s face when he’d left him in that glass cage. There was anger, and plenty of it, but it could not cover for his grief. Tiago would once have given everything in the world to make the boy smile, but there he was, making Richard feel like nothing.

        At the time, it had been easy enough to push regrets to the side, given how close he was to making Mother pay for her sins. It was easy enough to believe he was doing the right thing, considering how he planned on taking everything in his reach down with him. But now that he has failed at both those things, all he can see is that look on Richard’s face as he had walked away, and he is not sure he can live with that along with everything else that is wrong in his life.

        Not that he wants to live. Unfortunately, it is not up to him, except to the extent that he must make Richard understand that putting him down will be a mercy to the both of them.

        Only after Richard has let go will Raoul be free to do the same.

        As if on cue, there is the distant sound of a door opening and the crash of something falling to the ground, followed quickly by footsteps running towards his room. Apparently he was wrong about the lack of cameras because something is causing the young man to rush, and unless Richard can now see through walls, he must have a video set up to keep an eye on Raoul’s movements. He doesn’t have long to ponder this possibility as Richard comes through the bedroom door, looking winded. He must have been out, considering the coat he is wearing, which is far too warm for their flat. For a moment he sees the boy wrapped in blankets, trying to protect himself from the cold that he was unusually sensitive to. It is truly a wonder that Richard hadn’t frozen in that Scottish wasteland.

        “Tiago,” Richard whispers, quickly coming to his side. Raoul drinks in the sight, knowing that he can stare for as long as he wants to but it will not make up for the fifteen years that he has missed. The young man is too pale for his liking, but although the dark bags under his eyes are concerning, they can do nothing to take away from how bright they are. “You’re awake.”

        “Yes,” he says, the agreement little more than a croak. It’s been so long since he last spoke that it actually _hurts_ , and his earlier screaming fit had not done any favors for the state of his throat. The strength needed to form words is almost too much, and he almost wishes that this could be too much as well when he says, “You shouldn’t have.”

        Richard stares at him, at first confused because the shaky words are near impossible to understand, and then perplexed because the sentiment behind them is not. “Of course I should, I _wanted_ -”

        “No,” he cuts off. He will not be denied of this, not after everything he has lost. “I didn’t want to live.”

        It almost hurts, how quickly the shock and hurt on Richard’s face slip behind a stony mask. To be honest, he doesn’t know what the young man is surprised about. He’d made no secret of his desire to die earlier, and although his words in the cell had been designed to hurt, that doesn’t mean there was no truth behind them. The fact that Richard is alive doesn’t change anything. Neither does the fact that Richard loves… well, loved him, he’ll make no claims as to the present given his recent behavior. Still, it’s only made it harder for the both of them, to accept that things can never be the same between them. After all, Tiago is dead, and the only thing left for Raoul is to follow in his footsteps.

        The only thing stopping him from doing just that is Richard. He shouldn’t be so surprised. After all, Richard had made it clear enough that letting the quartermaster live would lead to plenty of regrets.

* * *

        As the weeks crawl by, Raoul quickly gathers back his strength. It’s not surprising (although highly disappointing), considering his many experiences coming back from “adversity.” That was what the doctors had called it when he’d suffered his first major injury in the field, a gunshot wound that left an ugly scar across his torso. Even in the throes of blood loss and drug haze, he thought the term “adversity” too pretty a word, but it’s the one that has stuck.

        Compared to some ( _one_ ) of his prior experiences, 007’s knife to his back is nothing. Yes, it should have killed him, but that is no fault of Mr. Bond, who did try his very best. It is Richard who is responsible, and the young man does take his responsibilities seriously, wasting his days playing the dutiful nursemaid.

        Raoul has no idea how Richard stands it, going from the high-pressure world of espionage and liars to sponge baths and changing bedpans. When once the quartermaster would have exhilarated at hacking into enemy networks, Richard’s greatest excitement now comes from Raoul finally being able to stand, although he still needs support just to piss. The young man is wasted here, and surely he cannot be the only one who sees that.

        _“This was my decision,”_ is all Richard says when he raises it (which he does, as often as he can).

        _“I’ve heard that before,”_ Raoul replies. _“And see how well it worked out the last time around.”_

        His comments are blatantly ignored. Honestly, Richard is a terrible host.

        Host might also be too pretty a word; _jailer_ is far more apt. Raoul is starting to understand how Richard must have felt those first few weeks under Tiago’s wing, as everything about their living situation has been reversed from the last time around. Not only is Raul utterly reliant on Richard, but even their sleeping arrangements are a perfect reflection of fifteen years back. Where once Tiago had insisted that the boy take the bed, now Raoul is the one trapped in the sheets as Richard makes do with the chair beside him, watching over his every breath.

        He hates it. He hates everything about it, from how weak he is to how dependent he is, and the inescapable realization that part of the reason why he hates it so much is because he had liked it when their positions had been reversed. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but Raoul is in no position to deny his faults. He had liked providing for the boy, enjoyed feeling so needed. Except now he is the one who has to be fed and watered like the pet dog he had accused Bond of being, and it is no wonder he is going mad.

        Contributing to his increasing desperation is the boredom. At least when he was the one in charge, he had tried to give the boy something to occupy the mind when he was working. By contrast, Richard refuses to trust him with so much as a television set, let alone a computer. Granted, the young man makes up for it by declining to leave the flat except when absolutely necessary, but this might not be a good thing given that their few conversations usually end up with slammed doors (courtesy exclusively of Richard, as Raoul lacks the strength for such dramatics).

        If it was anyone else, Raoul would have given up trying to talk sense into them. He’s never had much patience for others because people were generally beneath him. Richard, unfortunately, does not fall into that category. Richard has and always will be one of the only people he cares for, and the young man wants him to stay.

        “I don’t really understand why,” he observes as he sits at the kitchen table, watching Richard peel vegetables. Or rather, he watches the knife that the young man is using, and wonders how difficult it would be to appropriate it for a better use. Even in his weakened state, he’s practically twice Richard’s size, but he hasn’t quite forgotten how slippery the quartermaster was during their tussle in MI6. So not yet, he has to concede, although perhaps soon. Perhaps by then, Richard will even be willing to give him the knife.

        “You’ll have to be more specific than that,” Richard replies, his voice calm but shoulders stiff.

        He doubts that, considering how all of their conversations have been on the same subject, but if he must indulge the other man to get through to him, then so be it. “I don’t understand why you insist on any of this. What do you even think you’re trying to accomplish?”

        “What makes you think I’m trying to accomplish anything?”

        “You’re living in the past,” he retorts, gesturing at the window though he knows Richard will not look. He still remembers the first time he had really looked out the window and stared at the skyline that was both recognizable yet not, a skyline that he had once looked down at from the highest peak just outside the city. He was lucky that Richard was out on one of his few supply runs because despite everything, he would not have wanted the other man to witness the indignity of his collapse to the floor, in utter disbelief that he would be brought _here_. Raoul Silva had always made a point of never returning to Hong Kong, but like everything else in his life now (including life itself), it is not up to him. The thought gives new strength to the resentment that is already well-past the boiling point, and he snaps, “Do you think that just because you’ve brought us here, you can erase the past fifteen years? You’ve never struck me as this naïve, Richard.”

        He can see from the way that pale jaw tightens that the words hit closer to home than usual, but still the other man will not turn to look at him. In frustration, he continues, “The least you can do is face me after everything you’ve done.”

        The knife slips, and it’s only through sheer luck that Richard doesn’t cut himself. “Everything _I’ve_ done?” he asks incredulously, the question directed more at the poor potato, which has been shorn down to half its original size. “You can really say that after everything you have done?”

        “Oh, so you finally remember that detail, do you?” he replies, but his acidic smile goes unnoticed. “I was starting to worry that you had forgotten about those little acts of terrorism I engaged in.”

        Richard declines to acknowledge that point, except Raoul has no interest in being ignored. He’s had quite enough of that since he’s woken up because for someone who is so insistent on making Raoul live, Richard seems quite content to disregard the consequences of his actions. “You’re a fool, Richard. Pretty and clever, but just as much a fool as you were fifteen years ago. You had goals, ambitions, a _life_ , and now what are you? You’re nothing but a nursemaid, taking care of a broken man who doesn’t want to live. Is this really worth giving up everything you’ve accomplished, everything you could have _been_?”

        “I would not have accomplished any of those things if not for you,” Richard replies, the words desperate and a little frustrated, unable to understand why Raoul cannot see things the same way. “I would not even be alive if not for you, Tiago, and-”

        “And there it is again,” Raoul interrupts, his lips curling in disdain as he says that hateful word again, his voice rising with each iteration. “Tiago, Tiago, Tiago. Tiago is **dead** , you idiot! Why can’t you just accept it and let him _go_?!”

        Richard is shaking now, but not in fear or sadness. No, it might have been years since they had properly known each other, but Raoul will never be so far removed as to not recognize the rage that is coursing through the young man’s veins. Someone should have better taught him to hide his emotions, to keep others from manipulating him so easily, but for now, all Richard can do is say, “I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t want to talk to you when you’re being like this.”

        He laughs, the sound manic and uncontrollable. Until his fateful reunion with the boy, he’s never really thought of himself as _mad_ , having a clear purpose to dedicate his entire being to. Everything has fallen apart since then, and clearly Richard’s dreams are one more thing to add to that pile of broken things. “Well, this is who I am now. You weren’t expecting a miracle, were you? You weren’t really expecting Tiago to come back, for us to live a happy life like we had wanted to? That is over now, Richard, and nothing you do will change that. You’re chasing after a ghost, _quartermaster_.”

        “Quartermaster no longer,” Richard immediately responds. “Now who is living in the past?”

        “You did not have to give that up for me.” Raoul’s fingers clench, wishing he had something he could grab and smash on the ground. It’s such a childish want, but he is just so _angry_ , and it feels like no words can truly express his fury. “I did not want you to give that up for me. I do not want to be here. Why can’t you just let me go?”

        Instead of fury, the words are misery incarnate because that is the true problem, the one thing that holds him back. Raoul may not be particularly skilled at the art of dying, having yet to succeed despite so many close calls, but he hasn’t even been trying since he has woken up. He wants to, but he cannot, not as long as Richard forces him to stay.

        Richard knows that is what is happening. That is why the other man avoids these conversations, the guilt that he is the only reason for Raoul’s continued existence. For his continued suffering. His hand tightens around the knife, but rather than finally put it to good use, he asks, “You were willing to kill in my name, but you cannot be bothered to try living for me?”

        The words are like a slap, harsh and unforgiving not in tone, but in its undeniable accusation. Raoul tries to cover for his shock though, asking, “What makes you think any of this was for you? I was the one Mother gave to the Chinese, remember.”

        “Lying doesn’t suit you,” Richard replies softly. “I just… I wish I knew what you wanted from me, Tiago.”

        He lets that one go because he is suddenly so tired, the fury having burned away to a bone-deep exhaustion that makes him wonder how he is able to still breathe. Except he doesn’t really have to wonder now, does he. “You know precisely what I want from you.”

        “I don’t,” the other man says, more to himself than to Raoul, and the words are tired and a little frightened. “Sometimes I feel like you want me to apologize for being alive, like everything would have been easier for you if I wasn’t. You could play the martyr when you thought I was dead, but now that I’m not… it’s truly as if I’ve disappointed you by living.”

        His immediate reaction is to vehemently deny, to stand and wrap his arms around the shaking figure, to whisper soothing words. But those are the reactions of Tiago, and Raoul clamps down on it quickly, before he can do something that he regrets.

        So he stands instead, pushing back from the table with all his strength. It is not to offer comfort but to run away, unable to face the truth of what is being said. It is of course at that moment that his body chooses to fail him again. He falls to his knees, the agony in his back spreading through every nerve. It hurts, _god_ it hurts, but no less than the fact that Richard is correct, that a part of him does wish the boy had died because he doesn’t know how to live with the fact that he might have been wrong all these years. He’d had a purpose before, but now?

        Now, he has nothing. Nothing, except Richard, but perhaps he has finally lost that too. Because instead of having to endure Richard helping him up like some cripple and escorting him back to bed, he looks up to find that Richard has not moved. The other man cannot even turn to look at him, as if to do so would result in Richard turning into a pillar of salt.

        If only it was that easy.

        “I’m not the only one who is disappointed,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t have done this. You know that now, don’t you?”

        Richard’s reaction to this proclamation has evolved significantly, as he no longer recoils back. He even stopped getting angry, preferring to give Raoul the silent treatment for long periods of time, as if sulking like the boy Tiago accused him of being would make him change his mind about anything. But because it is Richard, who is constantly and almost deliberately trying to defy all expectation, this time he says, “I know.”

        Raoul stares. But if he thought that Richard is finally accepting what he has been saying all this time, he must content himself with disappointment when the young man continues, “But last I checked, we all do things that we shouldn’t have.”

        “That we do,” he agrees, a shaky hand grabbing the table, leveraging it so that he can stand. He’s lucky he doesn’t flip the damn thing over in the process, although he wouldn’t be sorry if he had. It would just be one more mess for Richard to clean up, and perhaps then he would no longer be interested in cleaning the mess that Raoul has become.

        Without another word, he staggers the short distance to the bedroom. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

* * *

        It takes thirty-five hours (and sixteen minutes and counting) to realize that something is wrong.

        “Realize” may not be the correct word, as Raoul could hardly have failed to notice the lack of his keeper. But he has become quite skilled at making excuses, and when the first morning passed without a glimpse of the other man – not even to use the flat’s only bathroom – he’d assumed that he had simply slept through Richard’s morning ritual (for all his thrashing in the middle of the night, Raoul could actually sleep quite soundly, a necessary skill given the nightmares that plagued him). When afternoon had turned to evening, he’d finally made his way to the kitchen to find plenty of leftovers but no Richard. Even then, he’d explained it away as a supply run, extended by the understandable need for some space.

        But now it is the next morning, and Raoul is standing in their sad excuse of a living room, staring at a sofa that has clearly not been slept on.

        Perhaps Richard is still sulking, he thinks as he looks at the blankets that are neatly folded and in precisely the same order as they were yesterday. He could hardly blame the other man, but he’s seen Richard’s version of petulance before, and this is not it. No, Richard goes quiet and still but he doesn’t shirk his responsibilities, using them instead as a sword to damn everyone else into guilt.

        So if this is not brooding, what is it? Perhaps the other man has finally taken him at his word and left, walked away from the increasingly toxic combination that they represent. It is a comforting thought, but not a realistic one. If Richard has proven anything since Scotland, it is that he is stubborn, and Raoul doubts that he would simply leave after going through the trouble of nursing him back to (relative) health. Certainly there are plenty of reasons to leave, but if Richard had not left before, it seems unlikely that he would leave now even when considering their most recent spat.

        That leaves just one conclusion; Richard is gone, and it is not voluntary.

        Whether that is a problem is a matter up for debate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies again for the delay! In a lame attempt to make up for it, the next chapter will be up on Sunday, and the epilogue next Thursday. Thank you again for all of your patience, especially since I know it was a long wait between chapters.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He is still holding onto the former quartermaster when asked, “Do you really hate me that much?”_
> 
> _There is no way his flinch can go unnoticed, not when they are this close together, and Richard adds sadly, “I wish I knew how to make you stop hating me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to fishwrites and Isanah for their help on this chapter!

        The practical part of him immediately pulls back, telling him that he is overreacting. Just because Richard is not here does not mean he has been kidnapped off the streets, as if they are in some preposterous spy novel. There can be plenty of other explanations for the absence; for all he knows, Richard could have taken a shine to someone younger and fairer than he, who can offer so much more than anger and resentment. But Raoul cannot deny that sometimes it seems that everything in their lives is more than a little preposterous, and besides, he cannot shake the feeling that Richard is in danger.

        Once, that feeling would have been all he needed. Tiago would have immediately set off to find the boy, would have torn down the entire city and sacrificed everything to bring him home. In a way, that was exactly what had happened. Mansfield had traded Tiago away in order to save the boy, and now all that is left from the ruins is Raoul Silva.

        And Raoul, well, he has to wonder if this might be the neatest way of ending things. If Richard is gone, he is free to do as he pleases. If he wants to go slowly, he can allow himself to waste away. If he wants to go quickly, no one will stop him from taking one of those knives. Without Richard, his reason for enduring is no longer here, and he can finally move on in the only way he knows how, leaving nothing in his wake.

        Except that is not quite the case. As hard as he has tried to sever all links to the world, even Raoul Silva does not exist in a vacuum. If he goes, he leaves behind Richard, and if Richard truly is in trouble….

        Raoul shakes his head angrily. What does it matter if he is? Richard the boy might once have been his responsibility, but Richard the former quartermaster is anything but. He owes Richard nothing, but instead of heading towards the kitchen to finish what 007 had started, he stays exactly where he is.

        Could he do it? Could he leave Richard to his fate, to be beaten or tortured or sold? Certainly, he can tell himself that whoever went to the trouble of taking the young man would not hurt him too much, since MI6’s former quartermaster has too much value to be broken beyond repair. Perhaps it was even MI6 who had taken him, come to pick up their errant child and return him safely home (although that hardly explains why he has been left here). Besides, given Richard’s value and more importantly, the potential danger he represents to MI6 if he falls into the wrong hands, surely their past employer will come rescue him before long.

        Raoul does not have to do anything, but even as he tells himself that, all those deaths that he had imagined for the boy come racing back. They wouldn’t go so far, of course, would probably limit themselves to hurting the bits of the young man that they don’t need, like his legs and feet. His hands, which Tiago had once marveled at as they raced across the keyboard, will be left untouched. His head too, since they would need him to be able to think properly. The rest though, that could be subjected to just about anything, whether fists or knives or a burning hot brand and-

        And what of it? _What of it?_ He points out dismissively that he’s seen the boy die so many times in his nightmares already, so what is once more? But the thought barely finishes when he feels sick to the stomach. That is not a sensation he has had in quite some time because he has not cared enough about anyone to feel that way, not since he thought he had lost the boy, with all his brilliance and intelligence and _strength_ , for the ability to live after everything the boy had endured was unimaginable. It is a strength that Raoul himself lacks, except when he is with Richard. Because for Richard, as much as he resents it, he will suffer anything as long as he has the young man by his side.

        That feeling is not one-sided. The boy was the first person to love him for who he was, and now Richard is the only person to still see him as a human being. To think that he is _worth_ saving, even after everything he has done. As much as he wants to, that is not something that he can simply throw away. Raoul might be willing to throw himself away, but he cannot do the same to Richard.

        Wordlessly, he walks to the kitchen. The cabinet is locked, but without the other man’s watchful eye, it is easy enough to break into and pull out a good-sized knife. As he stares at it, it occurs to him that it is not yet too late for him to use the knife as he had wanted to. But if he doesn’t, if he instead tucks it into his jacket pocket and leaves this flat, then he’s condemning himself to a life that… it’s less that he does not want it, so much as he knows he does not deserve it.

        But Richard does deserve a life. From the day they met, he has been trying to _give_ him that, whether it is Tiago sparing the boy and giving him the opportunity to be something more, or Raoul doing what is best and walking away from that which he should not have. Walking away is not an option now though, not when Richard is at risk of death or worse.

        This is why he heads to the front door and opens it. He half-expects it to be trapped, and there is indeed a biometric scanner and keypad neatly tucked away, but either it is only for show or Richard had not remembered to set it before leaving. Either way, he is soon on his way, ready to finally put to good use the skills he had picked up as Raoul Silva.

* * *

        There is a lot working against Raoul, much to his considerable irritation. It’s not that he had expected it to be _easy_ – it never is, not when it comes to them – but the reminder of his limitations is something he could do without.

        For starters, there is the simple fact that he has no idea where to even begin. It is all well and good to tell himself that he will find Richard, but the impossibility of his task quickly sunk in when he left the building and immediately found himself in the bustle of the city, being jostled by crowds of people too busy with their own lives to worry about his. He’d had to flatten himself against the building in order to avoid being swept away, needing time to think about where to go.

        There is so much he does not know about Richard. It goes beyond not knowing what Richard’s schedule is like, or which stores he prefers to frequent; no, it is a fundamental lack of understanding who the young man is now. _But not everything has changed_ , he’d told himself, although that was hardly a comforting thought when so much had in comparison. Richard is a stranger to him, except when he is not, like how he arranges the dishes or falls asleep with his glasses still on, or the half-read books that are scattered-

        Ah. Of _course_. Unable to trust Raoul to be in the same flat as a computer or television, Richard’s only form of distraction are the dog-eared books he leaves about. He’s never seen a book on computers because MI6’s former quartermaster would hardly have needed those, but time had not taken the boy’s voracious appetite to read anything and everything, as the books are varied in topic and genre.

        It does not take him long to find a nearby bookshop. He seems to recall more of them when he was last here, but apparently books are just another victim of the digital era. Now is not the time to complain about it, when it vastly simplifies his search.

        There is no sound as he opens the door, nothing to alert the bookshop employee of his presence. She notices him immediately though, a cheerful smile on her face.

        “I’m looking for a friend of mine. I think he may be one of your customers,” he says, hoping that the smile on his face makes up for the slowness of his words. His Cantonese is painfully rusty after all these years, but she waits patiently as he picks out the words that once came so naturally. “European, like myself.”

        “Which one?”

        _Which one?_ It is lucky that he has so much practice lying, as he laughs affably. “He is thin and pale, with glasses and green eyes, and-”

        “Oh, you mean the one with the hair like a bird’s nest,” she interrupts, and the fondness in her voice makes Raoul abruptly jealous. The feeling goes away quickly though, as she continues helpfully, “Yes, he comes by here quite often. He was actually supposed to stop by yesterday, but he never showed. It’s not like him to be off-schedule.”

        His smile tightens, although she is too busy prattling on to notice. If he finds Richard in time, he will have to have a talk with him about being so predictable that even a bookshop owner can foresee his patterns. But rather than dwell on that, his mind drifts back to what she had said earlier. “I’m sorry,” he says politely. “But you had mentioned there is another foreigner who frequents the shop?”

        “Well, he only started coming by last week. But like you, he’s not so much interested in books as he is in your friend.” Her smile turns almost conspiratorial. “I think you might have competition.”

        “Do I?” he replies, even as his stomach turns at the thought. “I don’t suppose you can describe this man to me, dear?”

* * *

        Conveniently, she can, and in such great detail that it almost makes him suspicious of her motives. It is difficult to push back his paranoia about an amused store clerk, and manages to thank her for her time and departs, heading to the shadier part of the city. On his way, he relieves a few gaping tourists of their wallets, although he’s nearly caught the first time. It’s pathetic that he’s been reduced to pickpocketing, after the criminal network that he has built up, but now is not the time to lament his downfall. He’s done plenty of that already, and if everything goes to plan, he will not have to worry about his status for long.

        The city has changed a great deal since he was last here, but when it comes to the criminal underground, it is depressingly the same. On one hand, the outlaws must be ready to move at a moment’s notice, but on the other they tend to be creatures of habit, using the same sorts of hideouts. Raoul has not had much interaction with Hong Kong’s criminal element since his days playing spy for MI6, but like his Chinese language skills he still remembers how they think, and it doesn’t take long for him to obtain what he is looking for. There is something reassuring about some things not changing, he’d thought as he paid for everything with the money he had appropriated. One wouldn’t think that the common criminals would last so long in this rapidly changing world, but sometimes the old ways are still best.

        Even with the piece of shit computer that they had sold him at an outrageous price, Raoul is able to find what (or more precisely, _who_ ) he is looking for with relative ease. As he had tried to explain to Mr. Bond, one does not _need_ to do the legwork of spying and waiting, not when there is an entire world begging to be accessed through a keyboard. Hacking into the CCTV is nowhere near as challenging (or profitable) as rigging an election in Uganda, but it’s still useful to help him search for what he is looking for.

        That is ultimately how he finds himself in a dingy hotel room that makes his and Richard’s look spacious by comparison, with Richard’s knife to the Russian’s throat. He’s lucky that he’d taken the man by surprise, especially when he has a knife wound of his own to contend with. As if on cue, his little souvenir from Scotland starts throbbing merrily in his back, complaining about the day’s activities. It’s really too soon to be pushing himself like this, but it’s also the first time since he woke up in Hong Kong that he feels _alive_. The pain is easy enough to push back when he is in this position, being the predator as opposed to the prey, the person who has _all_ the control. It is an arrangement he approves of very much.

        “Now then,” he says pleasantly, letting the knife dig in just a bit more when the bastard struggles against him. Like Richard, the man is thin with a wiry strength, but pinned like this he has no real chance. Not the sort to be hired as muscle then, or for self-control if the way he’s spitting out curses is any indication. Raoul would never hire him, but who is he to question the personnel decisions of others? “I would like to speak to whoever hired you about a recent acquisition you’ve made.”

        “I don’t know what you’re talking-” The last word is understandably cut off, on account of Raoul tightening his grasp around the man’s neck.

        “As I was saying.” Raoul doesn’t like having to raise his voice, but it’s unavoidable given the way the Russian is howling. Honestly, it is as if the man has never been stabbed before. The wound isn’t even fatal, just a shallow slice through fabric and the skin of his side, the blood oozing slowly down the blade and onto his hand. “MI6’s former quartermaster. It is my understanding that your employers have him.”

        He doesn’t get an immediate response, his captive requiring some time to regain his composure. Raoul is generous enough to give him that time, although this is the last time he plans on being so generous. “Who wants to know?”

        In response, he pushes the knife in deeper, eliciting some more screaming. “Just an interested bystander,” he replies, forced to speak directly into the Russian’s ear so that he can be heard. “I have business with both him and MI6, you see, and your actions have created quite a mess. I don’t like messes,” he adds, the blood dripping onto his shoes notwithstanding. “But I’m willing to give you a chance to make it up to me. I suggest you take it.”

        His gentle prodding – both through words and the slip of the knife – earns him quick results, as the Russian rasps, “The desk, there’s a note… a location. I was to meet the group there to get my payment.”

        “Were you really?” he asks, absolutely fascinated by the very idea of someone still writing down addresses to their secret hideouts on a piece of paper, to be picked up by any passerby possessing some sharp cutlery. “Surely you must have known that they were going to kill you if you were stupid enough to show up.”

        The befuddled look on the man’s face indicates that this is news to him, and Raoul has to suppress his sigh. He’s having problems believing that Richard could actually be stupid enough to be caught by these rank amateurs; clearly MI6 had chosen to coddle their quartermaster rather than teach him some basic survival instincts. It’s not a bad plan, as things go, making their high-value employees completely dependent on the agency for protection. Not so good for said employees, of course, but since when has Queen and country cared a whit about that? That will be something for Richard to figure out later though, so he returns his attention to the conversation at hand. “You should thank me, honestly. If you’d gone there, they would have dropped your warm corpse into the harbor.”

        He shoves the man away, and it is a little heartbreaking to see the hopeful look on the Russian’s face, as if he really thinks that he is going to be getting out of this alive. The look is still there when Raoul pulls out the gun he purchased – also ridiculously overpriced – and quickly fires three bullets into the man’s chest. He’d made no promise not to treat the Russian the same as his employers had planned, and besides, he’s not in the habit of leaving loose ends (with one significant exception, and see how well that had turned out).

        Raoul steps over the still twitching body and to the desk, and picks up the piece of paper with an address scrawled on it. His smile tightens when he immediately places the address, and he can’t help but think that fate has a very ironic sense of humor indeed.

* * *

        “Well,” he says. “This is familiar.”

        And so it is. There is, for example, the warehouse setting that he finds himself in, as well as the corpses of the enterprising terrorist group in the making that he had taken by surprise. Perhaps Raoul should not be so irritated by how easy it was to kill them all before they could even pull out their weapons, but he still cannot believe that Richard could be kidnapped by such incompetents. Yes, it makes his work easier, but it is also a reminder that he had so much more to teach the boy, before Mansfield had intervened.

        No one is around to intervene now, not even a spare guard. At least they had taken the precaution of locking the backroom that Richard is trapped in, but it’s no more a deterrent than the lock on the kitchen cabinet (even though what is on the other side is far more valuable).

        Unlike the boy, Richard does not sit neatly in a chair, but is instead slumped carelessly on a bed that is probably infected with lice. But the darkened bruise on his pale cheek is a familiar sight, and quite possibly explains the dazed look when Richard glances up at him.

        “Tiago,” he murmurs, the words a bit slurred. Before Raoul can correct him, the idiot tries to stand up, only to be stopped by the rattle of handcuffs. Richard blinks at the metal, as if not sure where it came from, before apparently deciding that he does not have the energy to deal with it. Not when he has other questions to ask. “What are you-?”

        “Shush now,” he says, tucking the gun away before coming close enough to help Richard lean back against the filthy wall. “You talked back, didn’t you?”

        The soft laugh makes his heart clench. “Only a little.”

        “That is usually enough when it comes to people like this,” he lectures.

        Richard narrows his eyes, although it still takes a moment for those bright green eyes to focus on him. Regardless, it is obvious that his disapproving tone is not appreciated. “I’ll keep that in mind,” the other man finally replies, although if Raoul has anything to say about it, there will not be a next time.

        But that will require him to stick around, and he has no intention of that. Honestly, he should just get on with it, when Richard is still suffering the symptoms of an obvious concussion, and could still write off his presence as a hallucination. Instead, he breaks open the handcuffs before running his hands all across Richard’s limp body, prompting the man to grumble, “If that is what you wanted, you could have just-”

        The complaint is cut off by a wince, and Raoul quickly removes his hands from the thin ankle. He throws a sharp look at Richard and, when no explanation is forthcoming, demands, “What is this?”

        “A broken ankle,” comes the reluctant reply. “They took offense when I tried to run.”

        He sighs, “You never did have much sense.”

        Richard lets out a broken laugh. “I suppose not.” They both know that he is not only talking about his ankle, or the actions that led to it being broken. “I did not think you would come.”

        Raoul has no interest in being kind. In any case, if all goes to plan, it won’t be remembered. “I nearly didn’t.”

        The answering nod is more akin to the flop of a head, and Raoul regrets undoing the handcuffs so quickly when he has to catch the young man before he slumps forward entirely, holding him up easily. He doesn’t bother trying to prop Richard against the wall again, knowing that they will only have to repeat this endeavor, so he is still holding onto the former quartermaster when asked, “Do you really hate me that much?”

        There is no way his flinch can go unnoticed, not when they are this close together, and Richard adds sadly, “I wish I knew how to make you stop hating me.”

        This should have been his cue to agree, to once again try and sever all ties between him and the boy. He doesn’t. Not only is he certain that it will not work, but at some pathetic point of his life, he must have come to realize that he could never let Richard go that way. Now he has finally reached the point of accepting it. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

        Richard tries to look up at him, but lacks the strength to do so, instead sinking back into his grasp. He wants to believe that what Raoul is saying is true, but more than that he does not want to be hurt by false expectations. “Lying still does not suit you, Tiago.”

        “I’m not lying,” he reiterates. Because if Richard insists on calling him by that name, then he knows that Tiago could never lie to the boy. Not about something as important as this. “I wish I could. It would be better for both of us if I could.”

        “We have very different ideas of what is better then.”

        With deft fingers and a coordination that should be well beyond him, Richard reaches forward, hands slipping beneath his jacket. At first Raoul thinks that he is going for 007’s little gift, and the fingers do hesitate there for a moment, skimming the small of his back where the knife had sunk in. How many times had the young man traced the wound, memorizing every bit of the jagged flesh before it finally deigned to knit back together? He’s still pondering the question when Richard goes further, searching for his prize before returning with Raoul’s final purchase.

        He watches silently as Richard inspects the needle with raised eyebrows, a process that takes quite some time given the young man’s continued lethargy. It would be easy to snatch the thing away, but there’s no need to hurry right now, so he waits for Richard to ask mildly, “So this was your plan? Leaving me here handcuffed and drugged, so no one would think I was responsible for your carnage?”

        “The handcuffs were a pleasant surprise.” But yes, that is precisely what he had in mind.

        “Very neat. Very… tidy.” The words are anything but complimentary. “And what precisely did you think would happen afterwards? That MI6 would pick me up so that you could slink into the darkness while I went back to being quartermaster?”

        “Wouldn’t that be better for both of us?” It is, as Richard had so charmingly phrased it, _tidy_. They would go their separate ways, neither beholden to the other any longer. Richard could return to putting his skills to good use, rather than wasting his life away being caretaker. Raoul, on the other hand, could go back to dying. It is where both of them belong, even if he would prefer that the young man not work for MI6. Still, what’s done is done, and judging by their current settings, Richard is clearly in need of protection.

        Richard shrugs half-heartedly. “What makes you think they would welcome me back?”

        “What makes you think they wouldn’t?” Mother overlooked the boy’s treason once before, why not a second time?

        “James was a little miffed when we parted.”

        He snorts in disgust at the thought of the agent, snapping, “What of it? You slept with him before, just do it again. Surely that will be enough to take his mind off the past.” Raoul knows he has absolutely no right to be angry, but he is nevertheless. He is jealous, plain and simple, the thought of 007 getting to Richard first more than enough to make him see red.

        It is not, however, enough to prevent him from hearing the soft sigh. “You overestimate my sexual appeal,” Richard replies, but the words are not angry or even irritated. They are simply tired. Raoul understands well how exhausting anger can be. “In his eyes, I betrayed him when I took you away. He doesn’t take betrayal very well. He’s rather like you, in that way.”

        Raoul’s lips curl in displeasure at the suggestion that he is anything like Bond. “He is just one man,” he says dismissively, despite knowing that James Bond is anything but _just_ one man. “Even if he is her favorite, he cannot overrule Mansfield. As long as she supports you, you’ll be fine.”

        Despite the lingering effects of being hit in the head one too many times, Richard draws back, staring at him. “That will be difficult for her to do, seeing how she is dead.”

        “What?” he demands sharply, before he can even process what is being said.

        “You killed her,” Richard explains slowly, as if Raoul is the one suffering a traumatic head injury rather than it being the other way around. “How could you forget that?”

        Did he? He tries to speak but his mouth is too dry for words, so he swallows instead. He should feel thrilled at this, the triumph of knowing that the bitch is dead, but instead he just feels… numb. He hadn’t been expecting that, but then, he hadn’t been expecting anything should he have succeeded.

        But he couldn’t have. Yes, she was dying when Richard and Bond had intervened, but she was still speaking when he had lost consciousness. And if he had survived, why couldn’t she? She had survived so much already, putting her people between herself and the grim reaper, so why not again? He hadn’t let himself believe that he could have succeeded at his ambition fifteen years in the making.

        He doesn’t know why he cannot accept it. Her death… it is _everything_ that he has worked for, but suddenly it feels so meaningless. She had traded him like human chattel, turned him into something terrible, made him the monster that he is now. Because of her, he had pushed everyone away, unable to trust or care about the value of life because the one life that had mattered to him had not mattered to her. Mansfield had taken _everything_ from him, except she hadn’t. Because here is Richard, sitting next to him, and maybe his eyes are a little unfocused, but his breathing is strong and he is very, very much alive.

        Richard is alive, and so is Raoul, but somehow he is to believe that Mansfield is not. It makes no _sense_ , so he points out the obvious flaw in the story that he is being fed. “If I killed her, Bond would never have let us go.”

        To this, he receives a tired nod as Richard concedes the point. But Raoul must be getting complacent indeed if he thinks that Richard will admit his deceit, as the young man says, “He would if she told him to.”

        “And why would she do that?” he spits out.

        He would have been better off spitting out blood, especially given the quiet reply. “You know why.”

        “Enlighten me.”

        Richard just sighs, shaking his head. “You know her better than I do, Tiago.”

        Raoul stares at the disheveled hair, which is messier than usual, if that is even possible. He wants to rage, to deny what is being said, but even if he is able to convince Richard, he would never be able to convince himself. Mansfield had found him when he had nothing, and had built him up into an agent to serve her purposes. When she had abandoned him, he had dedicated his life to knowing her because understanding the woman who ruined his life was a key component to returning the favor. But as much as he had learned about her cruelties, of her remarkable ability to see all human life as disposable if necessary for the common good, he had never expected her to save the boy. Richard had not mattered to her, except that Richard had mattered to him. Mother might have sent Tiago to his death, but she had also kept alive the one person he would have been willing to die for.

        The one person he might still be willing to die for.

        By sheer force of will, his hands are steady as he reaches for the needle that Richard has kept hold of, prying it easily from the young man’s grasp. Then he slowly eases Richard down so that he is lying on the bed again, with Raoul above him. Unlike the boy, he does not need to straddle the thin waist, although a part of him is tempted. He’s always been so tempted by Richard, and that is precisely why he should jab the needle in and flee, before he can change his mind.

        He’s not usually this unsure; the opposite, really. He would not have got far in his revenge schemes otherwise, as entertaining doubts was generally the surest way of getting oneself killed when trying to bring about the destruction of MI6. The reason why he was able to push himself so much was because he had believed that he was _right_ , that he was doing everyone a favor by taking the tyrant down. This latest evidence that she was not the despot that he had needed her to be is one more reason why he does not deserve to live, but still there is this person beneath him, anchoring him to the earth. There is Richard, who believes that he deserves a chance.

        And not just him, apparently. Mansfield had offered him that chance too.

        “So what are you going to do?” Richard interrupts, and they’re so close together that Raoul can feel every breath. “You have all the advantage now.”

        Raoul raises an eyebrow, giving the other man a sardonic little smile. “You didn’t see me complaining when you were the one on top.”

        Richard reddens slightly at the memory of that and how forward he had once been. Raoul is glad to see that it is still a very attractive blush, not a splotchy red but a delightful pink that gives a lively color to those cheeks, a lovely comparison to his lips. In this position, it would be so easy to give into his desperate desire to touch those lips, but he resists. Again. “You could have thrown me off at any point,” Richard points out crossly. “I weighed nothing back then.”

        “You still don’t.”

        “You’re avoiding the question.”

        “So I am,” he agrees. “You should be used to that by now.”

        Despite the concussion, Richard manages to shoot him a sour look. “That’s why I had to straddle you the last time. So that you would have to talk to me, instead of simply walking away. But fifteen years later, and I still can’t make you stay.”

        “On the contrary, you’re the only one who can,” he replies, before he can regret it.

        “Am I?” The laugh is soft and broken as Richard admits, “I thought you had abandoned me, you know. For a long time, I thought M was just trying to be kind, by telling me that you had been taken by the Chinese. I thought you had asked her to take me away, and she was trying to spare my feelings. Even when I was waiting for you to come back through that door, I was so _angry_ with you for leaving me. I thought you left because I told you that I loved you.”

        Once again, Raoul is breathless at the mere thought of the boy loving him. Somehow, he manages to point out lightly, “You didn’t actually tell me that.” He would know; he’s replayed that scene in his head enough times. It did not provide comfort during dark times so much as grief with the loss, and the inescapable speculation of what _if_ he had responded in like, what if he had allowed him to reciprocate out loud?

        “Not in those words,” Richard agrees. “But you knew what I meant.”

        It would not have changed anything that happened later. Mother would still have sold him out. Richard would still have believed him dead. He still would have burned down heaven and earth and everything in-between to destroy her. But none of that had ever stopped him from wondering what would have happened if he had just told the boy he loved him back.

        “And do you mean it now?” he asks.

        This may be his chance to finally find out.

        “You tell me,” Richard replies, and although his words are thoroughly unhelpful, the look in his eyes is anything but. So much about them both has changed in the past fifteen years, but that has not.

        Raoul Silva straightens, letting his weight ease off the slim figure beneath him. Richard does not attempt to follow until he helps the young man up, once again letting him collapse against him with a soft sigh. He also allows Richard to wrap lithe arms around him, although this time the man goes nowhere near his newest scar. Throughout it all, he keeps a careful grasp on the needle and the drugs it contains, and more importantly the reprieve that it offers him. Reprieve from the pain, from the guilt, from the fact that he could be so wrong for fifteen long years. It was all he wanted over the past weeks, but at the same time, Richard was the only thing he had wanted over the past years. And as wrong as he was about some things, he had at least been right about this. Richard is extraordinary, not just what he can do but who he _is_. Tiago had died for him, and Raoul had killed for him, but now it is clear that most importantly, Richard is worth living for too.

        “We’ll have to move,” he says finally. “If those idiots could find you, anyone can.”

        Richard does not respond, beyond the tightening of his fingers in Raoul’s back.

 


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Raoul wakes up when an arm is thrown carelessly over him. He sighs; all these years later, and Richard is still so selfish when it comes to sleeping arrangements._

        Raoul wakes up when an arm is thrown carelessly over him. He sighs; all these years later, and Richard is still so selfish when it comes to sleeping arrangements.

        Not that they are “sleeping _”_ together. But given the concussion and broken ankle, he had insisted that the young man share the bed with him, and Richard had never left. Not even when they had, at his insistence, moved to a new flat, in a quieter part of the city. He had wanted to leave Hong Kong entirely, but they could not, mostly because they did not have many other options. Raoul has burned too many bridges, foreclosing much of the world to him and by extension, Richard. Still, at least their new flat is larger, with added security and even a television set (still no computer, but Raoul is not the only one who suffers as he watches Richard’s fingers tap at the air, as if wishing for a keyboard to fly across). There is even enough room for a second bed, but neither had even raised the possibility of moving to separate bedrooms, even if Raoul had worried that he might hurt the other man when his nightmares come calling.

        And they do come, every night. Mansfield and the boy and Tiago, sometimes accompanied by Sévérine and others who fell victim to his ideals. They drag him down into the depths until he cannot breathe, until he is sure that he has died. But every morning (and often during the nights too), he continues to wake up, only to find Richard wrapped around him.

        Unlike before, he does not pry the arms away from him. He simply lies there, staring at the ceiling (although what he is seeing is not the cream plaster, but blood and jerking limbs and empty, lifeless eyes) as he tries to steady his gasping breaths. The arms should feel constricting, like the threat he just escaped, but even in his worst panic he is somehow able to distinguish his fears from Richard, and give into the comfort that is offered so freely. Sometimes he feels guilty for accepting that comfort, as if doing so makes Richard the martyr, still offering payment for the good deeds of the person he can never be again. That thought is more than enough to send him into a terror worse than any the nightmares can bring him, and-

        “You’re obsessing again,” Richard grumbles, shifting gingerly, although the arm remains firmly in place. That is one difference from the boy, who used to sleep like the dead. The other man is by no means a light sleeper, but he is at least a little more wary, which Raoul is appreciative of.

        “That should be a compliment coming from you,” he replies with a slight smile. It’s not a particularly sincere one, but Richard isn’t looking anyway. His eyes are still closed and dark hair plastered everywhere, face half-buried in the pillow. He looks a mess, but Raoul could watch him all day like this, and be quite content.

        He had not thought it possible, really, to feel this way. Even when he was Tiago, he had always felt like there was something missing in his life (unsurprising considering how Mansfield was the closest thing he’d had to having a mother), and it wasn’t until the boy had come along that he had realized what. It isn’t that he needs someone to care for, exactly, but someone who he can trust. Neither Tiago nor Raoul had ever put much stock in trust, except as a means of manipulating foolish individuals into giving him the information he seeks, but it’s hard to live a life without trusting anyone.

        Raoul still isn’t sure if he deserves to have a life at all, let alone this one. After everything he has done, it feels odd that he can walk away from the wreckage. He isn’t unscathed, of course, but then who is? Even Richard has scars (besides the ugly one on his arm that makes Raoul wince whenever he lays eyes on it), tiny ones that make Raoul wonder about the fifteen years of life that he had missed out on. Perhaps the other man will tell him eventually, but perhaps not. Everyone is entitled to their secrets, although that isn’t going to stop him from wondering (or trying to figure it out).

        Because in the end, he wants to know everything about Richard. He wants to know about Richard’s life in MI6, if the double-o agents listened to him, how quickly he moved up MI6’s chain of command, how much he had taught himself when it came to taking out enemy organizations with a few strokes of the keyboard (and how much of that was Tiago). He wants to know about Richard’s life outside of MI6 too, whether he got together with his coworkers for drunken parties, what he did on the weekends (if he was allowed to _have_ weekends), if he ever took a cooking class like he had wanted to. Most of all, he wants to know why Richard could give all of it up so easily in order to be with _him._

        “You’re still obsessing,” Richard complains, with the sort of perfect timing that makes him suspect that the other man is a mind-reader. Or that he had said the last part out loud. “How many times must I tell you? It was my decision, and I do not regret it.”

        “Just because it was your decision does not mean it was the correct one.”

        Richard snorts, the breath quickly crossing over the short distance between them. “Do you still really think I am that naïve? I’m not a boy for you to coddle anymore, despite what you might think.”

        “Perhaps not,” he agrees. “But you are still very young.” Young and capable of achieving more than this, a quiet life without even a computer for them to build empires with.

        “I think I outgrew that excuse quite some time ago, thank you very much.”

        Not that the excuse had ever worked. Because as young as Richard was, he had understood things so very well, and not just when it came to computers. But it doesn’t stop him from saying, “You’ll always be a dear boy to me.”

        “You know, I’ve always loathed that nickname.”

        “Loathe,” he muses. “Your vocabulary has improved nicely.”

        Richard proceeds to nicely demonstrate exactly how much his vocabulary has improved by calling him a number of expletives, some of which are very creative. It’s amazing that Richard can manage that when his eyes are still closed and limbs so lethargic, and not to mention with the knowledge that as condescending as the nickname is, it’s never said without the affection that Raoul feels for him. That same affection causes Raoul to lie there, staring at Richard’s mouth and thinking that what he wants to know most now is what will happen if he should finally close that short distance between them and use his lips to silence the words.

        So he does. Because experimentation is the most efficient route to answers.

        At the press of lips against his, Richard’s eyes immediately fly open, blinking rapidly as the sleepiness fades away. He doesn’t draw back but he doesn’t reciprocate either in his shock, and when it is Raoul who pulls away, it’s to the wry response, “I thought I was too young for you.”

        Deadpan aside, there’s that pleasant plink blush on the usually pale cheeks, and Raoul reaches out to brush a lock of hair back before running his fingers down smooth cheeks. They quickly come across the stubble; it amuses him more than it should that Richard grows a beard so quickly. He doesn’t remember that from their time together so long ago.

        “It’s not that you are too young as much as I am too old,” he explains finally. And he is. He is old, and he is tired, and despite all of that Richard still looks at him like he means something.

        Richard draws his arm back, but before Raoul can get the wrong impression, leans back in to kiss him. It’s quite unlike how he’s been kissed before. The few people he’d seduced for information had kissed him hard and with desperate want, as if trying to suck the very air out of his lungs. Sévérine’s few kisses were also desperate, but it was the desperation of someone trying to get things over with as quickly as possible, before his darkness could infect her further. Richard, in contrast, has a light touch, but it is deceptively so; the kiss is also firm and certain, leaving no doubt that he is sure that this is what he wants. There is neither an impatient eagerness nor hesitation; rather, it is a promise of things to come.

        It is a promise that Raoul thought closed off to him, even before he had met the boy. Certainly, he’d had a life of his own before Richard, but how long would it have lasted? Eventually he would have done something that Mansfield would not be able – or _willing_ – to protect him from. Eventually, she would have betrayed him. And he would have gone after her then, eager to burn down the world just to teach her a lesson. Maybe he would have succeeded, maybe not, but in the end he would have been left with nothing.

        But then he had, at a whim, chosen mercy for the boy. He’d had so many choices then, to kill the boy or let him go, but instead he had taken Richard home. That decision had put his life on a far different path than where he otherwise might have ended up, even if some things might have ended up the same. But instead of letting himself be consumed by hatred, Richard had given him a purpose beyond destruction. Perhaps it was not much, but it was enough, to allow him this possibility of a quiet life with someone who made him feel like he had worth, who made him feel truly _happy_.

        In his greatest estimations of the boy and all his potential, he never once thought that anyone was capable of that.

        That is why when they break apart, he pulls the other man as close as possible and buries his face in those thick curls. The gesture earns him soft complaints in return, but he doesn’t dare let go, still not quite able to forget what he nearly lost the last few times he did. But Richard does not share those same fears, and he can feel the young man falling asleep again in his arms, assured in the knowledge that there will be a later for them to talk about this, as Tiago had once promised all those years ago. It is difficult, but somehow, he allows himself to follow Richard’s example, and slowly drifts back to sleep as well.

        It is the first time in fifteen years that Tiago Rodriguez dreams of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for taking the time to read, and sticking with the story even after the very long hiatus. Also much thanks to the people who helped make this story the best that it could be, especially Isanah, ReadByRain15, and fishwrites. I appreciate it all.

**Author's Note:**

> My goal is for the usual Thursday update schedule, which I will do my best to keep to! In the meantime, if you’re interested in my shorter ficlets, deleted scenes, and babbling about writing (or lack thereof), I can be found at http://pikachumaniac.tumblr.com/.


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